i'm just a killer for your love 1997
A lot of my college friends used to joke that I'm so deeply entrenched in 80's nostalgia and fashion that, eventually, time would have to go by and I'd start obsessing over the 90's. Problems with this: my music taste remains strongly rooted in 1982, I hate grunge, and, most of all, I REMEMBER the 90's. There is a novelty to wearing winklepickers and jackets with huge, peaked shoulders; to teasing and spraying my hair into backcombed oblivion; to contouring my non-existent cheekbones into goth/disco (take your pick) perfection...because there are no terrifying photos of me way back when to remind me how shit it could look. 1982 is a fantasy land of New Romantics and Batcavers; if I can dig through the archives and find photos of myself in a gray panne velvet dress circa 1996, I don't want to see it on Alexander Wang's runway, and I sure as hell don't want it ending up on my body again.
But the great thing about fashion is that it's snobby when it counts. No one's looking to bring back crazy-colored JNCOs, thank the lord. But crop tops have been back for the longest time, a good pair of Doc Martens goes a long way, and everyone this side of Blogger knows I love any maxi dress that crosses my path. Chunky knits are great, so is purple lipstick (I WISH I could show you the extraordinary Make Up For Ever Rouge Artist Intense #14. A super-deep violet, paired with neutral eyes and a clean face, it's absolutely glorious and may convince me to swear off black eyeliner for a month or so). Not to mention the early 90's in particular gave us some iconic fashion movements--Helmut Lang minimalism, the heyday of the Japanese avant-garde, and, for better or for worse, that quintessential grunge Marc Jacobs/Perry Ellis collection.
kool thing 1990
I've been inching towards the dreaded decade for a while, actually; I've developed an appreciation for round, Lennon-style sunglasses, wearing stomping boots with baggy cropped trousers (has to be a looooooose fit), and the Beavis and Butthead video commentary clips. And OF COURSE! 120 Minutes, college rock be damned.
Give me neo-psychedelia, scuzzy lo-fi, a bit of velvet, and some crazy layers, but I'll be damned before I touch a fucking kitten heel. Some things are best left to history.