The simple life

It seems like the yellow brick road of fashion has gone neon, ruffled or just plain strange. We all know that fashion has its phases that it recycles unabashedly, passing them off as original ideas when the time comes. Like printed Post-Its and magnetic paperclips, it’s just the same thing modified for better or worse.

Although I would have easily embraced the glaring colors of the season, being the contrarian that I am I have slipped into a “Stepford Wife” coma and have suddenly gone suburban meek. I call it a fashion nervous breakdown. Maybe it’s my mood, but the look of less seems so much more now to me. I also have a penchant for carrying on trends three seasons after they were considered the dernier cri.

So how did I rediscover the classics?

It started innocently enough when I started experimenting with brown eyeshadow again (last time was perhaps in high school with a set from Wet ‘n’ Wild). After years of festooning my hooded lids with peacock colors, I suddenly got lazy and discovered the joys of the “biege” look.

Suddenly my style icon was my mother, swathing myself in black, gray and beige. I swear I looked like my mother’s living room: an ode to the zygote minimaxilist period. With brown lids, beige lips and brown blush… er, bronzer, I embraced that “just started with makeup look.” I went on to my basics. By basics I mean real pants without the dog-and-pony show of glitter and tops that were so “boring” they could only be excitingly versatile. Like the classic good girl who is meant to be married and not simply dated, my new wardrobe played for keeps.

I knew I was in trouble when I started wearing pearls.

Last year I was the girl who refused to buy black shoes and bags because they didn’t challenge my wardrobe enough. Now I wore the things I used to wear in college: loafers, capris and turtleneck halters with (gasp!) pashminas. It sounds all so boring, I know; but suddenly this boring look became exhilarating for me.

I was not a slave to fashion anymore. “It” bags felt juvenile. Funky became mainstream in my eyes. The plainer, the starker — the better. Stealth chic was the way to go. I focused on construction, quality and longevity. None  of the flotsam and jetsam of the fickle fashion culture.  Whenever I bought something I would ask myself: Where would this be in 10 years? If it joined my collegiate fashion companions, it was duly adopted. There was a certain fun, rebellious elegance in being, well, plain.

The reason I adopted this is perhaps after years of chasing the “it” dragon, I realized that I forgot what I really loved. Things that have lasted through my transient fancies have proved themselves as timeless.

The Prada dress for prom is still alive. So is the satin Calvin Klein dress for the seniors’ ball. My Hermes everything have survived the cruel whims of time. My Rhett Eala and Dennis Lustico confections still radiate with originality. My favorite shoes are still kept in their pristine condition, much attributed to their excellent craftsmanship. What’s timeless for each individual is different.

Coco Chanel’s classic look is very well championed as much as Tina Chow’s. They both knew what they wanted. Their dress sense was not insecure. It was consistent, dramatic in a subtle way and elegant without being sexless. As entertaining as flamboyant dressers are, there is an intriguing air among those who don’t need the drag show. These well-heeled women certainly had their dramas internally, but the external package was a symbol of assurance and strength. The only emotion their clothes carried was perhaps in the pearls, which suggested vulnerability and sadness. That’s what I meant by trouble earlier.

So in these placid clothes lies a new excitement that begs for intrigue for many many years to come.