Five fashion-y things I’ll never understand.

by shanrahwakefield

Five fashiony things I will never understand PIC

General acceptance of pain and suffering.

Pain and suffering in the name of style and/or hotness is about as easy for me to comprehend as dropping a baby guinea pig out of a helicopter in the name of nothing. This general notion of “no pain, no gain” has been present throughout centuries of fashion. From 18th century corsets, to Chinese foot binding for tiny sexy feet, to dagger-like stilettos. The same goes for dressing for a night out in the hot, tropical Bahamas in the dead of a Melbourne winter, as if it’s NBD. Goosebumps are chic, huh?

Flip flops with heels.

Especially the ones littered with gaudy diamantes. What the actual fuck? There are thongs, then there are heels. I’ve already expressed my sentiments on the latter, anyway. They live on opposite sides of the fashion universe. Exactly what is the point in these fugly hybrids? Thongs are inherently casual, comfortable rubber things that make my life chilled out. Their purpose is to be simple and easy. You use them to walk to the shop to get an ice cream. So… why are we wanting to put clunky stumps of even more rubber underneath them and call them heels? It destroys the beautiful, inherent purpose of a pair of thongs, which is to bring us joy and happiness via casual comfort.

Skinny jeans over penises.

Shoutout to the boys. Why the fuck are you clamping your oh-so-delicate cock n’ balls in an airtight denim stranglehold? Aren’t you supposed to take care of your love machines? Just FYI, when I look at you, I do not see a rockstar. I see an uncomfortable man-child with significantly compromised reproductive abilities. All I want to do is unzip that fly and set the poor buggers free. There’s nothing less flattering than skinny jeans on a dude. Nothing.

Fake tan.

OK – No offence to the majority of my friends, who engage in this activity twice weekly… or whenever the fuck you’re meant to do it. IMO, it’s near impossible to get away with fake tanning without the whole world (including your white sheets) knowing you’ve done it. And doesn’t that kind of just defeat the purpose? Looking good is meant to appear effortless, otherwise it’s just embarrassing, right? There’s nothing effortless about an orangey-beige tint that is rarely spread evenly, smells like flesh on a barbeque, and takes a good half hour of your life to apply (including the required post-application nakedness). I once had fake tan forcibly applied on me by my younger sister, who told me I was not allowed to attend my law faculty ball looking like a translucent baby goldfish. First though, I apparently needed to shave the forest off my forearms, and as a result I’ve involuntarily become an arm-shaver for life. See?! Consequences.

Fake nails.

I was an unrelenting nail-biter as a kid and had to use that vile-tasting nail-biter’s polish to stop myself from eating my entire fingertips. In hindsight, if we had’ve whacked a set of fakeys on what was left of my nails, the problem would have been solved! Accidentally stick a fake nail or two in your gob and you’re in for the wrong kind of treat. You know what else I think fake nails are good for? Nothing. Fake nails are about as practical as running shoes made of ice. Their length and obtrusive presence make daily tasks such as typing and eating rice paper rolls unnecessarily complicated. And what if you had to hold your friend’s baby for a minute and accidentally stuck a fake nail into its body? Awkward.

I guess I should really admit that I suck at being a girl. Over and out.

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