the lipstick diaries: ysl rouge pur couture

The perfect nude is hard to come by – it’s requires either a search of unlimited patience, or rides entirely on luck. Too pink. Too orange. Too brown. Too chalky. Et cetera. Rosy browns and mauves are my choice of color – they’re effortless. Natural. No endless amounts of squatting on the floor of Sephora, swatching and swiping until my lips grow raw at the repetitive process.

There’s a saying passed amongst women, when talking about men, of course. It’s when you’re not looking, that things – men – come your way. Things – men – fall into your lap and in line when you least expect. So the popular advice goes. 

And so it was without any intentions I walked past a Yves Saint Laurent counter and fell for a beautiful lipstick. One look and I knew it was right – a feeling that comes after you know yourself well. A smooth formula that glides into the lips; just pigmented enough, but not heavy, in a warm, pale nude with a peach undertone. It’s complete and absolute heaven and, moreover, is so delicious to wear. Beautiful with a caramel tan, and just as lovely with a paler complexion.

I think I can safely say that lipsticks are in the same category as lingerie and books – things I have no self control towards whatsoever.

I’ll have you know: I have no intentions of refraining from these indulgences.

YSL Rouge Pur Couture no. 6 “Rose Bergamasque”

.   .   .

x

P.S.: For ladies with a pink or even neutral undertone, YSL’s Rouge Pur Couture in no. 10, “Beige Tribute,” would look stunning. It’s an irresistible milky pink-beige.

{pictures via moi}

bag whore: givenchy antigona

The Antigona is everywhere. And everything.

I have this theory that the Givenchy house makes some of the best handbags in the industry. The house simply doesn’t receive enough credit. While they aren’t necessarily the easiest to spot in a crowd of louder bags, Givenchy handbags hold their own: they’re easily discernable and iconic to the trained eye. An “it” bag, so to speak, but not of the moment. Each model possesses qualities of utter timelessness and versatility – a guarantee to last a lifetime for whomever. She can be a woman in her twenties, or one in her fifties. She can be the classic femme who pairs her Givenchy with a knee-length, floral pencil dress, or a girl who lives in leather jackets and The Great Frog jewelry. Let the woman who wears the bag determines what the bag is and represents.

There was the Nightingale and Pandora, and now the Antigona. Three bags so different, yet so similar; all are practical and understatedly chic, but changes in structure are what give each their nuances. All functional – roomy, well-constructed – and classic  with just enough architecture, but the perfect amount of slouch.

I pined for the Nightingale, and dreamt of the Pandora. And now I lust after the Antigona. My heart can only handle so much unrequited love before it breaks – the next of Givenchy’s creations just might be the straw that broke the camel’s back.

Givenchy Antigona Satchel, available at Bergdorf’s.

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x

{image unknown, via, via}

things i love (thursday)

A rack of Hervé Léger that gives me heart palpitations. One day. I’m (humbly) growing my collection of bandage dresses, one dress at a time.

+ Sorbet colored nails. Specifically newly acquired bottles of Essie’s “A Crewed Interest” and Revlon’s “Blue Lagoon.” One a beautiful pastel peach, the other the prettiest of light blues strewn with fine specks of glitter, both delicious against a tan. They remind me of summer, even when in a window-less office for eight hours. It’s amazing how color is so transformative and influential.

+ Back to being a working girl. Not that I ever stopped. While I enjoyed the flexibility that came with working as, essentially, a freelancer, I loved stepping foot into an office again, more. Sure, dressing up is part of the fun, but being around people – always buzzing, always brainstorming – and being physically part of something, is invigorating.

+ Bowls of fruit. Watermelon. Kiwi. Strawberries. All freshly diced and sliced to bring color and undeniable juiciness into the world. Sweet and tangy, all in a bit. This must be what summer in heaven tastes like.

+ Bellydancing. It feels so good to be a woman. So good. Did I tell you – my hip scarf never leaves my handbag.

+ Tropical floral prints. It’s all I see and all I want. Pencil skirts, dresses, bikinis. In an island print or darker, Peter Pilotti pattern, I have no discretion. I don’t think I’ve ever loved – nonetheless liked – a trend so much. Zara and Webster Miami for Target – you do me proud.

.   .   .

x

P.S.: A few weeks ago I was given the “Sunshine Award” by Kelly Ann – thank you love!

 {image via}

need, want, love…

A chest of pretty lingerie and bikinis.

Avocado on everything.

Conversations that only end when one of us falls asleep.

Sun. Heat. Sand between my toes.

The perfect summer dress.

Dinner dates with the girls.

To wake up in time to see the sun rise.

Inspiration, always.

Dancing.

Meditation on an open beach.

Freedom, independence, responsibilities.

Open minds and open hearts.

.   .   .

x

just took my first bellydancing class.

I just took my first bellydancing class.

Actually, let me re-write that statement. It needs exclamation points to properly exude my current emotional state.

I just took my first bellydancing class!!

Two exclamations for good luck and emphasis (I like my things in even numbers). It was perhaps one of the best workouts of my life, not to mention, a chance to do something I’ve always wanted to do. Shoulders. Chest. Hips. Thighs. I felt it – truly felt it – from head to toe.

That’s the beauty of all things which make me feel flexible, bendy, and powerful. I can control my body and how it moves; slight hits, elongated snake arms, tiny staccato shimmies, or drawn-out figure eights. Sensual? Or coy? Muscles burn, but I can’t help but want to keep going. Push through. I can do it.

The teacher – probably in her late forties – was beautiful. Exotic, serene, and simply beautiful. I couldn’t stop watching her. Even before she took her position up front, even before I knew who she was, I knew who she was. There she was, a crochet sarong – demure in a sea of brightly colored and well-ornamented waists – tied low on her hips. She was blessed with one of those small frames that couldn’t be overlooked no matter how petite she seemed; there was a presence about her. Commanding. Enticing. Knowing. Perhaps it was the waist-length hair, waves slightly frizzed from the humidity and sweat, pulled half up, half down. Au naturel. Or maybe it was those wide doe eyes; she’d occasionally wink as she looked about the studio at her students.

You could only imagine my surprise when she singled me out. “You’re a dancer, right?” She paused only to smile. “I can tell.”

I didn’t even get to answer.

But what I did get to do, however, was buy myself a hip scarf. It’s something I’ve wanted for the longest time and finally have; silly? Perhaps. Little things make me happy. The only difficult part was choosing; there were so many options. Lavender. A deep purple. Blues. Bright kelly greens. White. Silver or gold coins? Nearly every color and combination piled before me on the wooden table, each neatly folded in their respective plastic bags. There wasn’t any orange scarves, though.

The black one, strewn with gold beads and gold coins, came home with me tonight.

.   .   .

x