How to Be a Sophisticate: Or, Lessons Learned from City Living

On the right, a sophistcated female. On the left, me. Note the difference.

I have been a busy student since moving to Toronto. And this time I'm not talking about my stats class, I'm talking about style. I wanted to know what separated me from the other girls here. Were we not both human? Do we not both bleed red? Well, we probably do, but I'm sure the other girls look much better doing so. My problem is that I'm not sophisticated, just endearing. But that hasn't stopped me from learning why I'm not, so I could share my observations with you. Who knows - you may have to go Toronto someday, and you'll want to blend in with the ruling cultural class. My first lesson in sophistication was a swift one. And it is that a small head is a necessary condition. Small heads can bear more hair and make every neck look long. The problem is that my head is large. Massive. Unnatural, even. So, as other girls gracefully stride down Queen West, I waddle forward, a honeydew melon atop a pea coat.

Being forever banned from stylishness hasn't stopped me from learning other lessons, however. Even those with gigantic heads can benefit from the second lesson I've learned, which is that sophistication comes in only one colour, and that colour is black. Entire sections of Queen and King look like funeral processions when work lets out, as fleets of young professionals in black Canada Goose jackets, black duffel coats, black leggings and black boots stream out of work. I come here not to bury the look, but to identify it. It makes sense though. Black is slimming, clashes with nothing, and lets you go stealth at night.

The final lesson in sophistication, if you already have a big head and nothing black but a pair of polyester pants, is that you can always blow your hair out. Shiny hair that hovers in that liminal state between straight and wavy can make anyone look "right." Of course, sophisticated doesn't mean chic. I have seen some looks on the street that have made me stare out of the streetcar window and take notice, like the man with the mile-high top fade and puffy purple coat, and few of them have involved black.  But that sense of style is a rare thing, and sophisticated is a close-enough simulacrum, if you can afford a hair dryer.