For a pants person, I certainly seem to find my way around a great deal of skirts.
Would that be different if I grew my hair out again, I wonder? Or if I wore more makeup? Unfortunately, on this particular Snow Day in New York, I had neglected to bother with makeup nothing new therelazily disguised the fact with the most reflective shades I could dig out of the black hole that was my suitcase, and my hair had been so pummeled by sleet en route to buying bodega berries that morning, that I had no choice but to slick nude little gymnasts straight back.
As a result, I closely resembled a barely pubescent boy — an attribute that I have been cursed zhang for the rest of my selfie days. The only way to offset boyish looks in the absence of red lipstick, excessively winged eyeliner, and sunshine, is to up the 90s sexy — loosely translated to Donatella mini hemlines, no bra, and the illusion of a lot of skin in sub-zero degrees Celcius.
At the very least, leave the state of your knees to the imagination. Mine were naked from falling on my face getting out of the subway like a boss. No two elements should have the same texture — leather, ribbed knit, wool, and suede are a foolproof combination, naked if you can sneak in a furry something, all the better. And so, it zhang seem that what was intended to be a lesson in wearing miniskirts has turned out to be a tutorial in going naked in the snow without being naked.