Chainlink necklaces, lace headpieces, fringe bangs. The personal language of adornment

When I was 20 years old studying abroad in Paris, I had a French teacher who took issue with my sense of style. During one class, she managed to transform my yellow wool dress into a language lesson: People who wear bright colors call attention to themselves, she said in French while looking at me and making some point about grammar that quickly went over my head. More than offended, I was confused. I had not considered, or particularly cared, what my yellow wool dress might ignite in others. My quickly growing love for yellow had been more of an internal journey. I had gravitated to the color like a moth to light, seeking the dopamine hit of its glow, as if by osmosis I could absorb and become it.

Sitting with the stories in this issue, I am struck by a consistent and gentle contradiction: that many of us adorn ourselves in loud, expressive or peculiar accessories and clothes not to show off or be seen, but to hide, find comfort, turn inward. Chainlink necklaces, lace headpieces and even fringe bangs become a form of armor. As fashion designer Bryan Hearns says, “it’s kind of like you’re protecting yourself” — words that echo in Julissa James’ essay on hardware, in which her studs “communicate to predators” that she does “not identify as prey.”

In observing the Los Angeles Ballet at rehearsal, Claire Salinda distills the appeal of ballet core: How slippers and satin can make you feel more confident, secure and ordered in a chaotic world. In the studio, she marvels at the intimacy of ballerinas pulling up their leg warmers and doing their hair in the mirror as they wear their own YMCA T-shirts, crochet ponchos and charm necklaces. They show up not as characters, but themselves.

How we adorn ourselves is extremely personal, even a little superstitious. It is a secret code that cannot be fully understood by outsiders.

When I was 20 years old studying abroad in Paris, I had a French teacher who took issue with my sense of style. During one class, she managed to transform my yellow wool dress into a language lesson: People who wear bright colors call attention to themselves, she said in French while looking at me and making some point about grammar that quickly went over my head. More than offended, I was confused. I had not considered, or particularly cared, what my yellow wool dress might ignite in others. My quickly growing love for yellow had been more of an internal journey. I had gravitated to the color like a moth to light, seeking the dopamine hit of its glow, as if by osmosis I could absorb and become it.

Sitting with the stories in this issue, I am struck by a consistent and gentle contradiction: that many of us adorn ourselves in loud, expressive or peculiar accessories and clothes not to show off or be seen, but to hide, find comfort, turn inward. Chainlink necklaces, lace headpieces and even fringe bangs become a form of armor. As fashion designer Bryan Hearns says, “it’s kind of like you’re protecting yourself” — words that echo in Julissa James’ essay on hardware, in which her studs “communicate to predators” that she does “not identify as prey.”

In observing the Los Angeles Ballet at rehearsal, Claire Salinda distills the appeal of ballet core: How slippers and satin can make you feel more confident, secure and ordered in a chaotic world. In the studio, she marvels at the intimacy of ballerinas pulling up their leg warmers and doing their hair in the mirror as they wear their own YMCA T-shirts, crochet ponchos and charm necklaces. They show up not as characters, but themselves.

How we adorn ourselves is extremely personal, even a little superstitious. It is a secret code that cannot be fully understood by outsiders.

When I was 20 years old studying abroad in Paris, I had a French teacher who took issue with my sense of style. During one class, she managed to transform my yellow wool dress into a language lesson: People who wear bright colors call attention to themselves, she said in French while looking at me and making some point about grammar that quickly went over my head. More than offended, I was confused. I had not considered, or particularly cared, what my yellow wool dress might ignite in others. My quickly growing love for yellow had been more of an internal journey. I had gravitated to the color like a moth to light, seeking the dopamine hit of its glow, as if by osmosis I could absorb and become it.

Sitting with the stories in this issue, I am struck by a consistent and gentle contradiction: that many of us adorn ourselves in loud, expressive or peculiar accessories and clothes not to show off or be seen, but to hide, find comfort, turn inward. Chainlink necklaces, lace headpieces and even fringe bangs become a form of armor. As fashion designer Bryan Hearns says, “it’s kind of like you’re protecting yourself” — words that echo in Julissa James’ essay on hardware, in which her studs “communicate to predators” that she does “not identify as prey.”

In observing the Los Angeles Ballet at rehearsal, Claire Salinda distills the appeal of ballet core: How slippers and satin can make you feel more confident, secure and ordered in a chaotic world. In the studio, she marvels at the intimacy of ballerinas pulling up their leg warmers and doing their hair in the mirror as they wear their own YMCA T-shirts, crochet ponchos and charm necklaces. They show up not as characters, but themselves.

How we adorn ourselves is extremely personal, even a little superstitious. It is a secret code that cannot be fully understood by outsiders.

When I was 20 years old studying abroad in Paris, I had a French teacher who took issue with my sense of style. During one class, she managed to transform my yellow wool dress into a language lesson: People who wear bright colors call attention to themselves, she said in French while looking at me and making some point about grammar that quickly went over my head. More than offended, I was confused. I had not considered, or particularly cared, what my yellow wool dress might ignite in others. My quickly growing love for yellow had been more of an internal journey. I had gravitated to the color like a moth to light, seeking the dopamine hit of its glow, as if by osmosis I could absorb and become it.

Sitting with the stories in this issue, I am struck by a consistent and gentle contradiction: that many of us adorn ourselves in loud, expressive or peculiar accessories and clothes not to show off or be seen, but to hide, find comfort, turn inward. Chainlink necklaces, lace headpieces and even fringe bangs become a form of armor. As fashion designer Bryan Hearns says, “it’s kind of like you’re protecting yourself” — words that echo in Julissa James’ essay on hardware, in which her studs “communicate to predators” that she does “not identify as prey.”

In observing the Los Angeles Ballet at rehearsal, Claire Salinda distills the appeal of ballet core: How slippers and satin can make you feel more confident, secure and ordered in a chaotic world. In the studio, she marvels at the intimacy of ballerinas pulling up their leg warmers and doing their hair in the mirror as they wear their own YMCA T-shirts, crochet ponchos and charm necklaces. They show up not as characters, but themselves.

How we adorn ourselves is extremely personal, even a little superstitious. It is a secret code that cannot be fully understood by outsiders.

When I was 20 years old studying abroad in Paris, I had a French teacher who took issue with my sense of style. During one class, she managed to transform my yellow wool dress into a language lesson: People who wear bright colors call attention to themselves, she said in French while looking at me and making some point about grammar that quickly went over my head. More than offended, I was confused. I had not considered, or particularly cared, what my yellow wool dress might ignite in others. My quickly growing love for yellow had been more of an internal journey. I had gravitated to the color like a moth to light, seeking the dopamine hit of its glow, as if by osmosis I could absorb and become it.

Sitting with the stories in this issue, I am struck by a consistent and gentle contradiction: that many of us adorn ourselves in loud, expressive or peculiar accessories and clothes not to show off or be seen, but to hide, find comfort, turn inward. Chainlink necklaces, lace headpieces and even fringe bangs become a form of armor. As fashion designer Bryan Hearns says, “it’s kind of like you’re protecting yourself” — words that echo in Julissa James’ essay on hardware, in which her studs “communicate to predators” that she does “not identify as prey.”

In observing the Los Angeles Ballet at rehearsal, Claire Salinda distills the appeal of ballet core: How slippers and satin can make you feel more confident, secure and ordered in a chaotic world. In the studio, she marvels at the intimacy of ballerinas pulling up their leg warmers and doing their hair in the mirror as they wear their own YMCA T-shirts, crochet ponchos and charm necklaces. They show up not as characters, but themselves.

How we adorn ourselves is extremely personal, even a little superstitious. It is a secret code that cannot be fully understood by outsiders.

When I was 20 years old studying abroad in Paris, I had a French teacher who took issue with my sense of style. During one class, she managed to transform my yellow wool dress into a language lesson: People who wear bright colors call attention to themselves, she said in French while looking at me and making some point about grammar that quickly went over my head. More than offended, I was confused. I had not considered, or particularly cared, what my yellow wool dress might ignite in others. My quickly growing love for yellow had been more of an internal journey. I had gravitated to the color like a moth to light, seeking the dopamine hit of its glow, as if by osmosis I could absorb and become it.

Sitting with the stories in this issue, I am struck by a consistent and gentle contradiction: that many of us adorn ourselves in loud, expressive or peculiar accessories and clothes not to show off or be seen, but to hide, find comfort, turn inward. Chainlink necklaces, lace headpieces and even fringe bangs become a form of armor. As fashion designer Bryan Hearns says, “it’s kind of like you’re protecting yourself” — words that echo in Julissa James’ essay on hardware, in which her studs “communicate to predators” that she does “not identify as prey.”

In observing the Los Angeles Ballet at rehearsal, Claire Salinda distills the appeal of ballet core: How slippers and satin can make you feel more confident, secure and ordered in a chaotic world. In the studio, she marvels at the intimacy of ballerinas pulling up their leg warmers and doing their hair in the mirror as they wear their own YMCA T-shirts, crochet ponchos and charm necklaces. They show up not as characters, but themselves.

How we adorn ourselves is extremely personal, even a little superstitious. It is a secret code that cannot be fully understood by outsiders.

When I was 20 years old studying abroad in Paris, I had a French teacher who took issue with my sense of style. During one class, she managed to transform my yellow wool dress into a language lesson: People who wear bright colors call attention to themselves, she said in French while looking at me and making some point about grammar that quickly went over my head. More than offended, I was confused. I had not considered, or particularly cared, what my yellow wool dress might ignite in others. My quickly growing love for yellow had been more of an internal journey. I had gravitated to the color like a moth to light, seeking the dopamine hit of its glow, as if by osmosis I could absorb and become it.

Sitting with the stories in this issue, I am struck by a consistent and gentle contradiction: that many of us adorn ourselves in loud, expressive or peculiar accessories and clothes not to show off or be seen, but to hide, find comfort, turn inward. Chainlink necklaces, lace headpieces and even fringe bangs become a form of armor. As fashion designer Bryan Hearns says, “it’s kind of like you’re protecting yourself” — words that echo in Julissa James’ essay on hardware, in which her studs “communicate to predators” that she does “not identify as prey.”

In observing the Los Angeles Ballet at rehearsal, Claire Salinda distills the appeal of ballet core: How slippers and satin can make you feel more confident, secure and ordered in a chaotic world. In the studio, she marvels at the intimacy of ballerinas pulling up their leg warmers and doing their hair in the mirror as they wear their own YMCA T-shirts, crochet ponchos and charm necklaces. They show up not as characters, but themselves.

How we adorn ourselves is extremely personal, even a little superstitious. It is a secret code that cannot be fully understood by outsiders.

When I was 20 years old studying abroad in Paris, I had a French teacher who took issue with my sense of style. During one class, she managed to transform my yellow wool dress into a language lesson: People who wear bright colors call attention to themselves, she said in French while looking at me and making some point about grammar that quickly went over my head. More than offended, I was confused. I had not considered, or particularly cared, what my yellow wool dress might ignite in others. My quickly growing love for yellow had been more of an internal journey. I had gravitated to the color like a moth to light, seeking the dopamine hit of its glow, as if by osmosis I could absorb and become it.

Sitting with the stories in this issue, I am struck by a consistent and gentle contradiction: that many of us adorn ourselves in loud, expressive or peculiar accessories and clothes not to show off or be seen, but to hide, find comfort, turn inward. Chainlink necklaces, lace headpieces and even fringe bangs become a form of armor. As fashion designer Bryan Hearns says, “it’s kind of like you’re protecting yourself” — words that echo in Julissa James’ essay on hardware, in which her studs “communicate to predators” that she does “not identify as prey.”

In observing the Los Angeles Ballet at rehearsal, Claire Salinda distills the appeal of ballet core: How slippers and satin can make you feel more confident, secure and ordered in a chaotic world. In the studio, she marvels at the intimacy of ballerinas pulling up their leg warmers and doing their hair in the mirror as they wear their own YMCA T-shirts, crochet ponchos and charm necklaces. They show up not as characters, but themselves.

How we adorn ourselves is extremely personal, even a little superstitious. It is a secret code that cannot be fully understood by outsiders.