A Cultural Trip Down the Aisle

Every day on my way to work, I pass by a Japanese bridal boutique. Fortuitously located next to a notoriously stubborn stoplight, the shop's street front display is a highlight of my morning. In this display the store boasts a rotating showcase of the most over-worked, sequin-encrusted, lace infested "wedding" gowns I've ever seen. Not for any Japanese woman the (relatively) sedate tulle-skirted wedding gowns of America's bridal princesses. Instead, the brides of my Japanese village glide down the aisle in gowns of canary yellow and cotton candy pink, pleats and ruffles clamoring over each other; the gowns' sheer volume is surpassed only by the saccharine sweetness of the embroidered bustles. This week the store featured a mermaid gown of red organza and gold brocade, ruched, draped, and tucked into a cacophony of textures that would have put its recalcitrant designer on the Project Runway chopping block. Last week's feature was no better--a sherbet gown of Scarlett O'Hara proportions with puff sleeves and a lace/sequin overlay that hearkened me back to my hometown quincenieras.

What confuses me the most about these confectionery overdoses is how the dainty frames of Japanese women could ever compete with these towers of cheap organza. As a Westerner with curves, I cannot understand why a Japanese bride would not want to show off that lithe, slender figure in, say, a silk sheath. I wince with jealousy at the image of those porcelain petites floating ethereally through a ceremony of orchids. Or, if my vision of columnal elegance is too tame for my neighbors' wedding dreams, how about exploiting the aesthetic wit of Japan's major fashion designers? A Commes de Garcon sartorial touch would at least evoke more than an aesthetic toothache from its viewers.

Regardless of my fashionista disgust (and urbane snobbery), I can't fault the store for the amusement it provides me on an otherwise mundane trek to work. I'm already looking forward to next week's concoction.

Today my Hair Loves Asia

Today was 6 months and 17 days since my last hair cut. Why, you might ask, have I been suffering in this purgatory of split ends? 6 months and 17 days ago, I was in Korea, badly in need of a trim. Picture in hand, I boldly entered a promising salon and charaded a request for these bangs Claudia Schiffer was currently sporting--wispy, sinuous, sexy. What I got was nowhere near Claudia Schiffer and more of what I call the fat Asian girl haircut--blunt, thick bangs paired with an equally unmovable modular block of hair. I remember musing as I entered the salon how strange it was that these girls would select a hairstyle so obviously unflattering for well-endowed cheeks (or for almost anyone). And then I left the salon sporting what had become the fat American girl haircut, which was as unflattering on my well-endowed cheeks as it had been on the chubby ladies who exited before me. It has taken me all of the last 6 months and 17 days to outgrow the geometric absurdity of that hair cut.

That's not to say that I shouldn't have been wary before I even entered the salon in Korea. Only a year prior I had made the equally devastating decision to perm my hair (also in Korea). For those of you envisioning the giant curly rat nests of the 80s and early 90s, let me explain myself (though I in no way deny the error of my perm ways). Asian girls have stick straight hair. Like most females, they crave what they cannot have. And so they turn to the perm. Perms never went out of style in Asia, they just adapted to current trends. So after 20+ years of perms in Asia, they have perfected the art of loose waves and bangs engineered to lie charmingly on the forehead (never in the eyes, never swept unattractively to the wrong direction). What Western girl wouldn't want in on that? But what I didn't remember when I made the perm decision was that Asian salons have perfected the loose wave and bang on Asian hair, not slightly-wavy, cowlick, widow-peaked Western hair. My loose waves became spirals of 80s Cher gloriousness and my supposed-to-be-charming bang kinked unattractively 1/4 of the way up my forehead. Not a good decision on my part (or for my part, which they moved to the other side of my head, much to my cowlick's consternation).

And so, traumatized, I tentatively entered into the Japanese salon today. But I was welcomed with the flip side of an Asian hair cut experience. The entire salon staff watched reverently as their sensai (with holstered scissors hanging from his super urbane camo trousers) turned my lackluster Western locks into a paragon of flip and fullness. As he painstakingly measured and trimmed, his geishas cooed around me, pouring green tea, massaging my hands, and proffering me June 09 issues of US Weekly (Jon and Kate are in trouble . . . who knew?). When my hair was ready to be styled, I had three minions who fastidiously blow-dried and curled my foreign strands. And as I left the salon, they apologetically bowed and stammered, "So . . . sorry . . . my english . . .bad" (can you imagine that happening in the US?). All that for $30. There are some days when I love Asia. My hair says that today was one of them.

Ski Bunny- Japanese Style

It's wintertime in Japan. The fire engine red shinto shrines are generously iced with fresh snow. Mt. Fuji shines resplendently on the Tokyo horizon, crowned with a layer of unabashedly unadulterated white. And in the midst of this scenic purity, the Japanese slopes are open for business.

The pure powdered snow slopes beckon to be poached, waiting silently for their creamy mantle of white to be etched by the parallel streaks of that first glorious skier. But wait, what is this blight that is beginning its avalanche of colors down the virgin slopes? What is this crayola box of neon onesies? For a land which embraces the mute, geometric obtuseness of Yohji Yamomoto, it is surprising how thoroughly its winter resort wear has embraced YELLOW! and PINK! and ORANGE!. And it's not just the neon which is so horrifying to the eye. It's the vintage 80s Dynasty shoulders coupled with early 90s DJ Jazzy Jeff graffiti prints. I can't help but wonder if they bought their outfits back in 1991, or if some truly awful company is still producing these Dumb and Dumber monstrosities.

That's not to say that me in my red and black Spider ensemble is particularly snow-bunny esque. After perusing celebrity pics (don't judge- I'm not above celebrity gossip from time to time) of their Aspen jaunts, I can not understand how Mariah Carey attempts to ski in those leggings. Is she that good that she never falls? Or does she just never ski? And Denise Richards snowboarding without goggles? I know Gucci makes beautiful sunglasses, but I have trouble imagining myself attempting to circumnavigate a snow-drenched slope with only a pair of aviators.

So I guess I would call myself an in-betweener skier. . . not a neon monstrosity, but definitely not a snow bunny. Surprisingly enough, it is one of those few venues in life where I embrace true pragmatism. For now I think I'll stick with the Japanese slopes (I look good next to neon) . . .

The Murse

I'm just going to lay this out there. I am originally from Texas--land of big hair, Tony Lama boots, and Wrangler jeans. To me, a guy should be a little rough around the edges; dashing in this devil-may-care, Marlboro man kind of way. But what am I surrounded with in Asia? Prettified versions of pubescent boys with product-saturated hair who sashay in posses of fellow pretties, clutching whatever might be the "it" bag of the moment (in this particular case, Alexander Wang's Spring 2010 "Brady" football clutch, which I had, coincidently, been eyeing for it's super-edgy, super-sexy satirical take on androgynous accessorizing. In retrospect, perhaps too androgynous.)

*Disclaimer: I know that this is not all Asian men, but there is definitely a burgeoning demographic of pretties that deserve to be discussed*

How did this happen? How did the murse evolve and explode onto the Asian scene?

I have a theory, which stems from my college experience with smokers. They never start as smokers. They have one, once, when they're drunk; cough, cough, gasp, gasp . . . "I'll never do that again." But then they're drunk again and they're no longer smoking virgins, so hey, why not have another. And now they don't cough, so hey, maybe have a few cigarettes this time (still bumming the cigarettes off other people). And then it becomes second nature to smoke when they drink, so maybe they should buy a pack while they're drunk so they won't have to bum off people anymore? Great idea, but then that pack they bought when they're drunk is still in their purse and, oh, there are a few cigarettes left and it's such a stressful day. And then before you know it, they're buying the packs when they're sober. And that is how a social smoker becomes a smoker smoker.

Same concept with the murse. A guy gets his stuff together for the day. He's a low key, low maintenance guy so all he needs is his wallet and keys; it all fits in his pockets. But then that guy sees some ad for some great new phone that all the cool guys have. And what do you know, that cool guy phone doesn't fit in his pockets, so now he decides that maybe a messenger bag wouldn't be so awful. Didn't he just see Ashton Kutcher with a messenger bag? So he picks out one that is really practical and masculine--a drab olive maybe, clean lines, no ornamentation. And he likes it, he really likes it. Now he can carry his journal with him and maybe even his favorite book. So, now completely comfortable with his messenger bag, he eyes an "upgrade," with a few spikes on the front and a chrome latch that really captures the punk in him that has been hiding behind all that corporate homogeneity. We'll call that the gateway bag, because now the line between purse and bag is blurred and before you know it, he's toting an Alexander Wang clutch and thoroughly enveloped in the murse world.

Can we fight it? Can the females of Asia take back our previous monopoly on Louis Vuitton satchels and Balenciaga clutches? Sadly, I fear we have already been defeated. So as I stare enviously at the Brady clutch sheltered under Pretty's armpit, I realize that I must surrender graciously. I silently think, "Take the Brady clutch, just leave me my quilted Chanel handbags. Please."

An Introduction to the Author

Who am I?

A 65 inch, 130(ish) lb newly minted "curvy" girl (my weight gain over the last year will be explained, and obsessed over, as a reoccurring theme in these posts) lost in fashion translation. An expat in Asia for three years now, I have attempted (and resolved against) leggings with kitten heels, cartoon emblazoned tunics, full babydoll dresses, neon in any form, knee-high schoolgirl socks, pom-pom ponytail holders, and blunt bangs. I have foraged and forged the markets of Myeong-Dong, Seoul; gawked and subsequently aped the eccentricities of Harajuku, Tokyo; and gazed covetously through the marathon of luxury storefronts of Orchard St, Singapore. And all through that time I have been haunted by the specter of saleswomen who whisk away my selected smalls and tskingly replacing them with "largees." I have been tortured by shoe boutiques lined with petite masterpieces that are never to don this Westerner's monstrous US size 7.5 feet. I have been giggled at as I tried to squeeze my Beyonce-esque rear into their shapeless leggings and hopelessly constricted skinny jeans (my husband says I need a shoehorn for the jeans . . . I think it's an intriguing idea).

Enough! The curvy girl will no longer lament in silence . . .

This blog is not meant to have a true thematic relevance, merely to serve as an outlet for my voluptuous frustrations and incredulous fashion discoveries. It is my hope that this venue will not only quell my growing resentment of all eternally skinny Asianistas, but will also illustrate (somewhat anecdotally) the influence Asia has had on my wardrobe of Ralph Lauren button downs and J Crew chinos. Let the Asian fashion translation begin!