Stage 2: Keeping Up with the Kardashianz

For my entire life, my mother has claimed that my thick-as-hell dark brown hair was exceptionally unique. I therefore was banned from ever dyeing any portion of my luscious locks any color for any reason, ever. GASP.

I resented my mother’s stance re: hair dye deeply. 

I was an alternative-music-loving, angst-ridden teen, after all—and how would Conor Oberst ever fall in love with me if I was not sporting stylish, boxed-red hair? The prospect of simply NEVER fully fitting in at Vans Warped Tour was a first-world teenage tragedy I grappled with daily. 

Since then, my hair-dye-related resentment has abated significantly—in particular because I have seen countless Ukrainian women sporting ghastly bottle-hair-dye colors. (Further study:  this FB page entitled Eastern European women with badly-dyed red hair - over 1,000 likes. #FUN)

'Cause they love that natural~~~ look.

The major problem my people face is this: unless you got some ~~secret Polish heritage~~—you, Ukrainian woman, will have brown hair. It is likely very dark. In order to transition from very dark brown to any other shade of hair color and have this color-transition actually be visible with human eyes, your very dark hair needs to be bleached first. 

And then there comes the vicious cycle of very-dark-hair doom:

à Dark hair + bleach = bleach-orange

à Bleach-orange + (any color dye) = … a color that will likely fade back to bleach-orange

à Bleach-Orange hair + luscious, hirsute dark eyebrows of Ukraine = ...

Stage 1: R.I.P. Kooky Sweater Girl. (... You Won't Be Missed)

When in college, I used to actively identify myself as being a Kooky-Glasses-Wearing Librarian; “Kooky Sweater Girl” for short. 

It wasn't hard to fit the bill: I had a number of discussion-provoking bifocals; spent much of my time hanging out in beautiful libraries; + held a love for pleated skirts that was/is/forever-will-be undying.

And, of course, there were all those sweaters...

MAKE. IT. STOP.

If I reflect on what may have spurred my sweater addiction, I guess it comes down to two fundamental neuroses:

1. my endless campaign to bring more love to the under-valued genre(s) of fiber art (trapunto & yurt construction 4eva~~~). # Naysayers gonna naysay.
2. my true, deep, and eternal passion for sifting through thrift stores. 'Cause it's the treasure hunt that never ends, y'all.

#2 is the clincher in my sweater-addiction. See, the metaphysical law ruling vintage retailers worldwide is that—no matter the locale, tone, price-range, etc— they are inevitably filled with ornate, forgotten sweaters. Piles & piles & piles of ‘em.

True heaven is a place on earth... where everything costs $1; smells vaguely of BO.

There were also some practical reasons for procuring many wool-based garments. I was born & raised on the frigid streets of the D and then shivered through 4 years of higher ed in the Windy City... I had to stock up on cold-weather apparel to survive! A girl's gotta stay warm, aight?

(Read on, after the jump!)