MLK weekend found me in Houston, TX. Not exactly antebellum South Carolina, but the differences between my fair city and the ferocious jungle that lies below the Mason-Dixon line became quickly apparent upon my first night there.
My dinner companions, I was told, were two married couples around my age, as well as two single men that I had never met. In New York, this would mean that I would don my Adriano Goldschmied jeans and a sweater-top, perhaps from Ann Taylor. Footwear? Casual boots. Maybe pearl earrings, but definitely not "dress to impress". Glasses over contacts, and makeup would even be questionable.
In Houston, however, this meant something different. "These girls are gorgeous and will probably dress up", my friend warned, "so you should probably borrow one of my dresses." I had planned on wearing the aforementioned jeans and sweater top with minimal makeup, but a night of dress-up never hurt anyone, so I bit.
I am so glad I did. The two wives were a pair of blondes who were easily an 8.5 (out of 10) on their worst days, dressed impeccably in cocktail dresses that could easily pass for black tie-appropriate (with one of them being a delightfully creative piece designed in the 80s and snagged in a boutique on the LES when its wearer lived in New York), yet they attracted no attention other than the most positive.
Had I dressed like I ordinarily would (i.e. in New York attire), I would have stood out like the ugly duckling amid a pair of swans wearing chandelier earrings, with every strand of their flaxen hair (the kind that enchants the Japanese) perfectly in place. While wearing my friend's cocktail dress didn't transform this gawkish, brown-haired Manhattanite into Angelina Jolie, it did save my self esteem for the night.
So, why, in NYC, a veritable fashion epicenter, does no one care if you look like shit? You can walk down the street looking like a million bucks or a soiled, crumpled, smelly dollar bill, and only random human beings will notice. Sure, you may turn a few more heads if you made the effort, but you never run into Anyone You Know here. In Houston, the social scene is more incestuous - all the young professionals know of one another (usually from school), so the school-clique mentality of dress-up-you-never-know-who-is-noticing is more prevalent.
There's a freedom in being able to walk down the street in orange sweat pants, Uggs, and a grey sweater emblazoned with the Boston Red Sox 2004 World Champions logo. Or not worrying about regular manicures, or whether your eyebrows are adequately plucked. Sure, playing pretty is fun, but sometimes ugly is much more convenient.
Shameless Plug Time: The girls were both lovely dinner companions. They are entrepreneurs who have their own lingerie label,
Passport Panties. Do visit the website. There's a delightfully Elle Woods-inspired intro (including the three business partners disembarking off a jet entitled "Air Force Blonde"), plus information on where in the U.S. their merchandise is sold. In New York, Passport Panties can be found at Henri Bendel and the Madison Avenue Searle, among other places.
