Coiffure Catalyst

Hi there. Stylecunt here.

I’m not sure if you’ve noticed, but many of my posts have a common theme: Art through fashion. 

There’s nothing I love more than to see fabric sculpted into atypical forms, defying the norm of flat pattern. Function in form is fine, but it’s the one’s who break the code that earn the covet. Who needs comfort when you can have chic. Give me madcap and unorthodox over sleek and sophisticated any day. 

The masses seem to be trailing behind the mania, slowly but surely. Asymmetrical cuts and anomalous shapes are becoming the norm. My own person grail feels within grasp as clubs metamorphose into galleries of living art. 

Fashion’s on it’s way, but what about hair? 

Sure, you color and cut, but there’s only so far that can take you. One day, people will realize that there’s no personality under that asymmetric fringe, and then what will you do? My friend, it’s time for a change. One coif can have a thousand possibilities, but only if you get creative. 

An excellent resource is Doctored Locks. Not only is it a fantastic retail website that carries everything from Kanekalon to fusion rings, but it also has scores of tutorials on every kind of hair extension option you can think of. 

For further inspiration, here are a few of my favorite hair artisans. 

Robert Masciave

 

 

How to Wash Your Face

My esteemed colleague Stylecunt has asked me nicely (“Now, bitch.”) to lay out my skin care regimen. In the interest of never having to stare down another zitty, flaky, blackhead-studded face, pinpoints of clogged pores glowing green under club blacklights, I, your humble Steamcunt, have agreed.

The first thing you need to know about nice skin, is that it’s well-oiled. You probably know the next part, which has been dumbed down for the sake of simplicity: your skin produces a sort of wax called sebum, which is simultaneously the cause of, and solution to, all your skin problems. Sebum is what keeps your pores lubricated so they can express dirt and dead cells, it increases elasticity so that stretched skin can bounce back without forming wrinkles, and it’s responsible for that sort of ethereal “glow” that really healthy skins produce.

The problem with sebum is that you’re producing it constantly, and usually either under- or over-producing, too. Dry skin looks flaky and dull; greasy skin looks like a buttered ham. To fight the grease, we wash with soap and water, which dissolves the sebum and dries us out. Sometimes, your skin senses the dryness, and just ups production of sebum as a response. We’re back to being greasy. If we’re dry, we flake, we’re at risk for wrinkles, and our pores constrict and often become clogged, causing pimples.

How the hell are you supposed to deal with any of this? It seems like a standoff between dry-and-shitty, and hamface. Assuming you’re reading a fashion blog because you are a fashionably-minded person, I’m going to also assume you’re having an abusive love affair with beauty products. There’s something fascinating about cosmetics that borders on the erotic: the breathless descriptions of powders and lotions in magazines fill us with desire, while our train cases slowly overflow with useless delights we tried once and put away. But it’s addictive, and self-perpetuating, and soon you’re using three different kinds of foundations and concealers, separate morning and night moisturizers for each quadrant of your face, cold cream, face scrub, cleanser, toner, astringent, moisturizing mist, shampoo, cream rinse, wash-out and leave-in conditioners, and you still have zits and your hair is still totally bogue. Why?!

I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, deep down: those magic potions are bullshit. We like playing dress-up because it’s fun, splashing fruity-smelling tincture all over our dumb faces and twirling in front of the mirror like big gay princesses. But there’s really no need, darlings, none, to delude ourselves into thinking all this stuff is actually good for us.

You just relax, kids. You done fucked it all up, but all is not lost. Gather round, and let ol’ Pappy Steamcunt tell you how it’s done.

Spit Spat

The topic: These spats. 

Stylecunt:  It’s like, the spats are made of cake. 

 It should be marketed as ‘granny craft’.

‘100 fairies were killed to make these spats’.

 It’s like doilies for your feet.

 

Steamcunt: Tea cozies for the teapot line of Fluevogs.

I found the perfect boots to go with them.

 

Stylecunt:   Tell me that they’re made of unicorn hide.

 

 

 

 

Steamcunt: Dude, they are motherfucking cakepirate boots.

 

Stylecunt: Rococo New Rocks.

Or simply..

Rococo wrecks.

 

Steamcunt: New Rockoco?

 

Stylecunt: 17th century glam.

It makes a statement.

 

Steamcunt: “Make a wish an blow the man down”

 

Stylecunt: “My nose may be falling off from syphilis, but at least my feet look like royal cupcakes”.

 

 

 

Stylecunt: Just what my shoes always wanted, a collection of Jo-ann Fabrics dustbin scrapings glued into spats.

Lets go and put an insane amount of detail into accessories that are farthest from the eyes as possible.

‘You’ll have to get on your hands and knees to truly experience my spats’.

‘But please, don’t look up my Lolita skirt’.

 

Steamcunt: These are the kind of thing you do for extra credit in Home Ec and when you take them home at the end of the semester, your mom says they are “fun”.

So naturally, you go into business on the internet.

 

Stylecunt: Probably went to a school where you get a smile instead of a grade.

 

Steamcunt: (art school)

These are for people who really get off on Victorian sexually mores.

When just a hint of foot-bloomer was enough to get you raped by cads on the pneumatic subway.

 

Stylecunt:  I bet they have some uses.

You could throw them at Jack the Ripper.

 

Steamcunt: Absolutely.  The plastic buttons get up to killing speed.  It’s all in the wrist.

And of course we’ve all been at those fucking parties where the hostess doesn’t have any spare doilies, and some clumsy sow stains the whole stack.

 “Pardon me” isn’t good enough.

You spend the rest of the afternoon with a sopping brown doily.

Incidentally, Sopping Doily is the name of my Rasputina cover band.

It’s also an obscure sex act involving the last brown discharges of menses.

I read that on Wikipedia.

 

Stylecunt:  I wonder if King Louis knows his curtains are missing.

 

Steamcunt: Is it entirely beyond the pale to make fun of this woman for interrupting her product line photo collection with a retrospective of her dead cat?

Maybe it’s too soon.

Maybe she makes cat mufflers.

 

Stylecunt: Fluffy was killed in the great accessorie war of 2009.

He gave his life for fashion.

Spats and Happiness

My shoes collection has long since multiplied out of control, past all sanity, and firmly into the unreasonable regions past human grasp. One continues the search for various holy grails, picking up strays along the way: I still need the perfect pair of Knee High Black Lace-Ups. I still cast about for the Platonic ideal Wedge Pumps, and slobber at the idea of truly winning Ballet Flats.

As a result, I have well over sixty pairs of various footwear, all of which have a little of something likable, but are basically flawed. Flawed enough that I must keep searching for their successor. It’s torture.

Spats are a good compromise. They fit over your current shoes, giving you a whole new set of possibilities. I own several pairs of WWII-era gaiters, and a clutch of legwarmers besides. They’re the hats of feet, serving the same purpose as a nice coverup trilby over inches of grown-out roots.

This collection of fine leather spats (and cute little gauntlets) from Ashes and Empires is stunningly well-composed, but prohibitively expensive. Looking at it as an investment, and a multiplier of all your current footwear, the price seems more palatable, but only just.

Here’s for spreading the fruitless longing around:

Ashes and Empires [Smashing Darling]

Fluevogtastic

Every once in a while, I like to check in with Fluevog to see what spectacular treasures they have forged. I must say, 2009 has been kind to us shoe fetishists, we have been graced with this star:

 

The Berlin: Mitte $335

These shoes were surely meant to be the new love in my life, if only I could afford them.

 

Other neat characters include:

Coffee: Arabica $219

 

Coffee: Robusta $225

Wearevers: Hvala $415

Teapots: Lady Gray $199

Nippon Net

Currently, men’s fashion has been dominated by the drape. The runways are covered with blokes sporting the scarf and sweater. An entire armada of walking coatracks has flooded the streets of every metropolis. 

Now while I love the idea of the lads trying on a new trend, I can’t help but miss the silhouettes of yore. I can’t remember the last time I saw a dapper young gentleman with a tie and crisp collared shirt. It seems that tailoring has completely fallen to the wayside in lieu of outfits consisting of knit blankets. 

I miss the sharp striplings,. Come back and visit once in a while, will you?

Vogue Japan.

The Beastly Burners

Y’know what’s fun?

Burningman. 

Y’know what’s not fun?

Burner fashion. 

Neon colors, fuzzy fabric, polyurethane, and cheap spandex are just a few examples of the eyesore that is burner garb. It wouldn’t be so terrible if the monstrosities just emerged on the playa, and then went back into the shed for the rest of the year, but alas, I can hardly remember a night out that wasn’t tarnished by encountering a neon fashion mess. 

It’s a fashion plot worthy of an evil genius. Convincing thousands of hippies to cover themselves head to toe with fibers that are the exact opposite of eco-friendly. It’s hardly a surprising conspiracy. I mean, how hard can it be to convince people, who believe that partying will save the world, to dress like The Electric Mayhem? 

Normally I try to ignore this particular mania, out of sight, out of mind. Then, I came across this. From shoddy home-sewn projects to a full on assembly line of tragedy. 

Please.

Make it stop.

It’s The Year 2009, Where The Fuck Is My Flying Car?

Throughout the 20th century, a multitude of various mediums made premonitions  of the distant future. The artisans of type and silver screen foretold of flying cars, food in pill form, and a world engulfing metropolis of ominous ziggurats. But of all these failed promises, fashion was by far the most disappointing. 

Where’s the endless sea of grey exoskeleton bodysuits? Where’s my geometric second skin? I was so looking forward to an inexhaustible selection of neopreen outfits. Alternately, we seem to be stuck in a loop of recycling the past. Instead of space suits and rocket shoes, we have bell bottoms and sweatbands. 

Please world, I am pleading with you, do not bring back the eighties. There is only so much my eyes can stand, and they have nearly reached critical mass. 

Give me the sassy android apparel I crave. 

Give me smart fabrics and fiber optics.

Give me this.

(But with less Lady Gaga fringe)

Photos by Zeduce