Saturday, April 4, 2009

I just read a fashion memoir written by a 19-year old. "Peaches Geldof looks back at her unforgettable wardrobe woes, and explains how she finally got it together." Finally got it together? For fucks sake, she's not even finished with puberty yet.

I realize that in the world of young fashion she is some sort of ... not icon, but maybe role model. If she had recounted the last couple of years with some modesty or irreverence, and acknowledgment that at 19 one has not yet actually discovered ones' self, I could respect the self-indulgent self-reflection. But she begins her fashion journey a bit too young to take seriously ("By 2002, I was a carefree 12-year old." Is there any reason on earth anyone would care if a 12-year old wore pink checkered shorts? No. Well, maybe other 12-year-olds.), and she offers no actual reflection on her identity or personal development, just a timeline of trends she passed through. I'm sure if I were 15 (and rich enough to actually shop for my own clothes), I'd really love the piece. Unfortunately, I am 25, and it makes me want to trade my free subscription to Nylon for Better Homes and Gardens.

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