Polar Vortex
For the first time all year, I woke up this morning with a scratchy throat. Though my body isn’t aching yet, and I’ve surely ingested enough green tea, ginger, vitamin C, and leafy greens in a day to offset any unwelcome exam illness, the truth is in: Winter is here.
Sydney, unlike New York City’s dry freeze, has a wet chill that seeps right into your bones. It bullies you into a hacking cough, liberally passed around corporate offices and schools for the entirety of July, and hangs around till Christmas, when highs of forty burn off the remaining battlers. So, although Peter declared me barking mad when I waltzed into the Mercer lobby in a skirt and boots, ten below zero in New York is not going to be half as torturous as ten above zero in Sydney. Subsequently, I have absolutely no problem with skipping scorching Australian summers to stomp around in the snow on the show circuit, but as soon as it’s dark before five, I’m out of here as early as exams will allow.
Meanwhile, back in the dead of NYC’s polar vortex in February, Stuart Weitzman had surpassed my favourite leathers as pants of the moment. Frozen eyeballs are to be hidden by square frames, too many layers of thermals are to be disguised by the baggiest knit you can muster, and arms now too chunky to squeeze into coat sleeves are to masquerade as that impossibly impractical editor’s cape-trench situation (though, baby, oh baby, do I preach it).
Choose a muted, colour palette, and stick to it. Think khaki and burgundy, not your festive red and greens; think beige and ice blue, not fluffy pastel rainbows – because nobody wants to see you that cheerful when they can’t feel their toes.
For real.
Further, the requisite Winter styling skill, second only to mastering nudity, is that of the most unconventional layering you can imagine. Knits over man-shirts under overalls under coats, with a token jacket-skirt, have passed their use-by date of originality. Getting extreme with odd proportions can be much more elongating than one’s brother might think.
My brother? My brother thought this get-up was side-splittingly hilarious. It looks like your hips start halfway down your thighs, he said. How is anybody going to know that you have a waist without a waist? And why are you carrying your bag like that?
Such a considerate fellow, that Major.
Response: use your imagination.
Haters gon’ hate.
PRISM ‘Sydney’ Square Frame Acetate Glasses
ZARA Oversized Knit
Stuart Weitzman Highland Boots
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