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Letter sent on Jun 29, 2015


Welcome. This series is an exploration of fashion, performance and personality, brought to your inbox every morning for two weeks. You’ll see my outfits, but more importantly, hear the stories of the women I’m channeling. First up on this beautiful Monday:

Miranda, the barista with delusions of grandeur.

Miranda moved to New York from Pasadena two years ago to go to NYU, but quit because it was “holding her back” from doing what she really wants to do: act. She lives in a tiny apartment in the lower east side with a roommate named Stephanie and a pomeranian she got for her 16th birthday that she goes nowhere without. The dog is still not trained and shits all over, but it’s fine because she covers up the smell with Nag Champa and Chanel No. 5. In her mind, the apartment (financed by her parents Michelle and Rod, who she calls by their first names) isn’t a shoebox. It’s a villa in Cannes (which she will soon visit, after this new indie film she’s in — directed by a man named Davíd, just that, with an accent on í, no last name — comes out). Miranda is still figuring things out, but in some ways has the confidence of a woman three times her age. She drinks rosé like a sailor, carries her cigarettes in one of those vintage cases covered in rhinestones, and is barefoot whenever possible. And she doesn’t have lovers, she “takes” them. Often while wearing this glamorous robe.