Personal Style Versus Trendiness: A ~Style Journey~ by Ashtyn Butuso
Let me start by thanking my parents for my style journey. Mom, thank you for teaching me that I had to look polished at all times, and for working your tail off to supply me with all of my fresh lewks since I was young. And to my father, thanks for the divorce and my daddy issues so that I constantly felt like I had to stand out to fully express myself. Without you guys, I would be wearing floral rompers and slouchy sweaters (insert baby voice: “omg that looks SO comfy”).
In 7th grade, I moved schools (did I mention my parents got divorced and I have daddy — and maybe mommy — issues?). Although I was #teamdad at the time and very against the move with my mom and siblings, I knew I was gonna make the most of it. My new peers were gonna love me in my leg warmers and kitten heels (the kitten heels weren’t a statement at the time, but I wasn’t allowed to wear real stilettos yet so) or else.
I remember walking into Mrs. Applebee’s 7th grade homeroom class in head to toe lavender. I’m not kidding — it was all lavender. From my cargo pants to my flowy top, denim jacket and–the best part–my page boy hat. Honestly not sure where I found a lavender page boy hat, but I was the epitome of idgaf. Frankly, I was just proud to not be in a Limited Too camisole and Hollister jeans like the other girls.
Since that moment, my outfits always have had mixed reviews. I recall boys commenting on my outfits “Wow cool yeti boots. How many yetis did you kill to make those boots?” (yeah I wore 1970s yeti boots in 8th grade, sry bout it). And even in my adult life, most days a grown man will feel the need to analyze my style. That’s the thing about style, everyone feels like they have the right to comment on it, even if they have none of their own. It’s the last topic you are actually permitted to speak on when you know very little about it. My other passion in life is sports, and the number of times I hear men ridicule women for “speaking on topics they don’t even know anything about” is staggering. However, they are perfectly ok to tell me I look like I’m going to outer space in my moon shoes, or that I look like I am wearing a dentists bib (like seriously what even????). It’s called fashion, sweety, look it up.
So, here is how I maintain a level of pride in my personal style with little to no pay off from the style plebs surrounding me (I’m joking, I am not as dope as I am making myself sound).
A few years ago I moved away from my day ones. You know, the mains, the ones who will tell you how you’re fckn owning an outfit when you deserve it, and they’ll tell you that cheap zara dress looks like a Forever21 find and judge you forever for even considering buying it. Anyway, when I first moved to the tech hub of the world and realized I wouldn’t be getting gratification for serving up my best lewks, it was tough. That reinforcement was something I desperately needed, because I already felt like an outsider in many ways. Sometimes a gal needs a lil’ pat on her back for expressing herself so freely. Like an artist who isn’t appreciated during their time (yeah I just compared myself to Picasso — wait was he the one that wasn’t famous? IDK), it can feel lonely and pointless.
It wasn’t until I was out on my own that I realized I wasn’t going to get the instant-fulfillment that an Instagram model gets when she puts on an off the shoulder top and a freaking floppy hat. People may not ask where I got my *perfectly* tailored, oversized blazer, rather they will tell me that I look like a professor and compliment my deskmate’s peep toe fringe ankle booties — and that is okay! It’s okay because I don’t dress for other people. My style isn’t for the male gaze, or to feel like I’m up on the latest trends.
People often say that fashion is a shallow and pointless hobby. And I have to spend a lot of time reminding myself that they’re wrong. No one tells a male “foodie” that their Michelin star resto is a waste of time and money, because that is their form of self exploration. To them, food is art, and studying it is a hobby. But since fashion is historically a feminine art form, it is considered vapid, wasteful.
As every single athlete/struggling hip hop artist from your high school advises: Let your haters be your motivators. Their criticism is validation that I am doing something right, because I am being fearlessly me, and that can make people uncomfortable. Heck, I give myself a lil’ pat on the old back when I get ridiculed for my style. I want to be seen, to be thought of as bold, and to be noticed because I own this shallow, pointless hobby of mine. I mix black and brown (SUE ME!!!); I don’t de-wrinkle my clothes; I wear socks with sandals and turtlenecks under tank tops (gasp); and I do it because I am creative, strong, in control. And listen, you gotta risk it for the biscuit, feel me? If you want to feel powerful and expressive, you have to try new things. You have to thrift, and layer, (and maybe layer some more) and walk with that mf head held high because you just curated a bomb ass fit, and everyone should know. And don’t worry, deep down they will.
