PHOEBE THATCHER
From the head down; a shrinky dink necklace shaped liked a laser gun (pew, pew, pew), an avocado-coloured Andrew Bird concert tee-shirt, fitted, nice and soft from lots of wearing, with a lovely illustration of his signature rotating victrola speakers on it. A black pleated skirt I grabbed from the thrift store – a little shiny in some places from too much ironing, but clean and a respectable length, a few inches above the knee. I feel that pleated skirts are a lost art form. I like the uniform, almost military vibe they lend to any ensemble. Black, lacy patterned tights, relatively opaque- my mom’s, from the ’80s. Beloved TIMBERLAND boots, mid-calf height, with brassy zippers along the inside, buckles along the outside by the heel and laces all the way up the fronts, black – but a hard-working, humble greyish black, not the shiny onyx you see in Underworld and The Matrix.