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.

Beware My Awesome Powers

A few days ago, my Dad was in town and we were walking along Sherbrooke, right past the Musée des Beaux Arts. The posters for the big Yves St Laurent show had just gone up, which meant I had just found out about them, at which point the following conversation transpired.
Protagitron: Oh. My. God. I have to see that! The clothes.... the draping... WHY ISN'T IT ON NOW?
Dad: Is he still alive?
Protagitron: Who? Yves? Oh God no, I'm sure he died a couple of years ago.
Dad: Oh, I thought he was...
Protagitron: Nah, he's dead.

Then, a few days later, I saw this headline on the Times:

Yves Saint Laurent, Giant of Couture, Dies at 71

...
Oh God, I killed "Yves" with my brain!

Fortunately, I'm seeing the show this Sunday morning with some friends. We'll have to get there early, since the lines have been crazy ever since his death. Sniff. Morbid rubberneckers, all. I'll have you know I'm just going for the DRAPING.

Other Goings On

In my absence, besides temporarily dropping out of McGill, I somehow made my way to MAC and am now in possession of a reasonable stash of make-up.

Yes, I know that those two ideas seem incongruous, but bear with me. I never wear make-up. Well, hardly ever. I was never really taught the correct way to go about the application of various facepaints and the like, so on the rare days when I tried, I would religiously blend and blend until I may as well have been wearing nothing at all. Even my prom in high school. I did my make-up myself because I had spent a ridiculous amount of money on my dress, which ended up amounting to tinted gloss and mascara, with the barest of eyeliner. I did my hair too, which with all my skill was left to dry in all of its curly, thatchy glory. I was Boadicea at the top and Audrey Hepburn from the neck down. I shaved my legs, yo. I tried my best.

Anyway, I figured I could at least try and learn the ropes. So, I begged my most fashionable friend to be my wingman at the MAC store. Fortunately, the salesperson was a kind, earthy type in a pixie cut, instead of the vampiric, cult-eyed foundations mavens you sometimes see working the aisles. She gave me a nice, basic look that doesn't make me look like a lady of the night, and I am almost capable of repeating it at home. I would grade myself at a B+. Now, I just need to get my hair cut again and I'll look semi human.

And yes, I know that cosmetics are just another tool of the patriarchy, or something. Women's Studies students, take the lead here. But it's a useful tool to have in my arsenal, and I'm too damn lazy to match my actions up to my feminist ideals. I even wear heels sometimes, the horror. But they are Fluevogs, which I think should be given a pass- I need to support my countryfolk.

My adorable foster cat Oliver is still looking for a home. I want him to find a good place before I have to go back to Guelph. He went to one adoption day, but I guess no one wants an adorable love magnet with a yen for food. Maybe his size puts people off- he's a little girthy, but the boy is a big cat. I swear he's about the size of my old Sheltie, Brydie. I would adopt him myself, but my parents have a new puppy, and just hate cats as a united front. He's calm, and patient. He's never malicious, and he wants nothing more than to be around us. He'll lay on the couch and watch TV with us, or on my bed as I work in my room. Like a good child, he loves his parents equally and will spend one night with me and the other with Katie, sleeping at the foot of our beds. He's come up with many clever ways of getting more food. Waking us up at separate times so he'll be fed twice. Opening the latched cabinets to eat his food. Tearing into a bag of Temptations cat treats like it was a freshly killed zebra carcass. But he has sweeter moments too- rolling on his back to show off his orange belly, or nuzzling my head while he purrs. He's simply an awesome cat, so if you know anyone in the Montreal area who could give him a fabulous home, get in touch with me.

Ow. Vomit. Repeat.

God. Damn. I'm waiting for tomorrow to see what fresh hell it will bring. Swarm of locusts? Herpes? WHAT?
Sorry. I'll write more tomorrow. Right now I have to finish reading an Ibsen play and finish my dessert of Jell-O. Dinner was a generous bowl of... plain chicken broth. Tomorrow I get to have solids again. And what a feast it will be, from the main course of white rice to the dessert course of some "easy to digest foods like apple sauce", all expertly complimented by "clear, easy to digest juices like apple juice". Double the apple, double the flavour has always been my motto. Well, anything to reduce vomiting.

I also have to take my super cute and much adored boots back to the store. Oh, my darling Fluevogs, black and tan of sole and brown of leather, a twist on the classic engineer boot with brio- why must you hurt me so? You see, sometimes, stupid, stupid people will try on boots they really want, and find out that they are very close to fitting, and yet seem somehow- off. And these same people would have had an earlier experience in the day where another pair of boots, the historic Fryes, looked like ass on their feet, for she apparently has a high instep as the shoe salesperson said. What the shoe salesperson did not say is that she also has fatty fatty monster calves*, but anyway. So, she will try and tell herself that some of her favorite shoes, from the ugly but comfortable Blundstones to my very favorite heels, were tight in the beginning but, being leather, they stretched. In fact, since the last pair of shoes were bought at the very same store, clearly this bodes well. She will even ignore the adorable pair of heels that fit well and buy these instead, even though this stupid person has money for neither. And this fairy tale will end with all of the stupid people getting gigantic, pillow-like blisters stretching across their heels, throbbing rhythmically as they try to read Russian history. It doesn't help that our library looks like a gulag, adding to the whole "Eau de la Torture" that wafted about the proceedings. Hooray.

Tomorrow will be better. I insist on it!

*Note: I don't usually think of my calves as fatty fatty monster. If I'm not trying on boots, I don't even notice them, much less mind them. In fact, I rather like the earthen solidity. And the weird diet regime is illness related, not some sort of wacky diet. I like my (meant and cheese) solids.