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(This is an excerpt from Her Argument)

Doesn’t matter if you’re standing in line at Supreme, or cruising the Real Real’s online consignment sales, or mad for Rachel Comey, Opening Ceremony, or Celine, or smart and shopping at Uniqlo… Doesn’t matter if your jeans are skinny, boyfriend, pre-torn or you only wear pencil skirts. Or if you wear Docs or Choos or clogs. Doesn’t matter if you say you don’t give a damn about style and pull on whatever t-shirt happens to be on top in your drawer or the pile on your floor, and your jeans may be way out of date… because no matter what, you are a member of one Style Cult or another. As in a cult, your approach to fashion is a defacto creed of sorts, a belief system by which you, in part, define yourself and present yourself to the world, bedecked in the raiments and signifiers of your chosen cult.

My particular cult is fairly arcane, and for that I often get street props. Perhaps it’s a mash-up of boho cowpoke with Japanese aesthete, of avant-trekkie clown muddled with a splash of gangsta. Or whatever. But I know it’s a cult, even if I don’t know who the leader is. Hell, maybe it’s me… and maybe secretly that’s what I strive for.

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