I Forgot, How Many F$&#s Do I Give?

As a human of the female persuasion, I've always felt I've had two options before me, and I feel the unfortunate need to be Shakespearian here: to give a fuck or not to give a fuck.

I'm talking of course about fashion. And potentially makeup. And maybe some semblance of a hairstyle on a particularly festive occasion.  Or how I used to put it: "What? Waking up earlier? Why?"




As someone who's experienced both sides (Does curling my hair once balance years of wearing pajamas to a school with a strict uniform policy?), I've come back to report that I have answered this perennial question the same way that I have answered many of my other pseudo-philosophical ponderings: depends on how I'm feeling.

I, and all of my fellow brethren who have succumbed to the ubiquity of cognitive dissonance, do not like to subscribe to hard and fast rules for my behaviors (what other people would call "habits," but I cannot due to the inherent contradiction in terms).  I tend to decide what I'm feeling in that moment, and stick to that.  This does, however, prove less successful when I put curling iron to hair shaft and lose interest after the fifth twist-hair-and-wait is completed.  I can't deceive myself into thinking half a head of curled hair and half a head of straight suits my face shape.  Maybe on a heart. Or an oval. Probably an oval.

I think this notion of "whatever, whatever, I do what I want" is particularly pertinent to style. Or at least my own sense of it.  I do not prescribe to the notion that I need to find my style and stick to it, even if only for the season.  I'm perfectly content looking like I'm rushing a sorority one day, homeless the following morning before making a punk rock transformation by nightfall.

I used to hate putting thought into my appearance.  Partially because mornings and I are not on speaking terms, but also because the people I knew who did make the effort made it every day.  I'm not really an "every day" anything kind of person.

Now, that I've let go of that notion of fashion being for the girly and organized, I've started to enjoy finally enjoy it and see its potential as a form of expression.  My clothing can reflect the inconstancy of my mood and aesthetic.

I hereby take an oath, "First impressions be damned. I shall wear what I want, when I want, and in my exposé of my many selfs, I shall discover who embraces each side, and who is a waste of my time."