The double standards are high — and so are Harry’s platform boots.
Harry Styles floats across the red carpet in a sequined Gucci dress, pearl necklace dangling, confidence radiating like he just invented gender-neutral fashion and joy. The world swoons. Twitter applauds. Vogue faints. And me? I wear a floral maxi dress to a casual brunch and suddenly it’s a “bold cry for help.”
Where’s my applause, world?
Harry’s outfits whisper, “I’m redefining masculinity.” Mine scream, “I got dressed in the dark while sad.” The injustice is real.
Let’s be clear — this isn’t about jealousy (though yes, I am a little bitter that my high school suspenders phase didn’t get a Vogue spread). It’s about the rules. When Harry wears a blouse? It’s retro. When I wear a blouse? HR wants a word. He tosses a feather boa like it’s part of his respiratory system. I try it? I get labeled “theatre kid energy” and asked to leave Zara.
And don’t even get me started on the nails. Harry’s manicures are national events. Mine are an ongoing battle between chipped despair and “Oops, I accidentally painted my cuticles.”
But maybe that’s the lesson: fashion is power when it’s worn like a revolution. Or when you’re a multi-platinum pop star with cheekbones that could cut glass.
Still, I’ll keep wearing what I love. Because in a world of predictable beige, sometimes a chaotic floral jumpsuit is the only protest we have. And someday, maybe, just maybe, someone will stop me on the street and say, “Iconic, not institutional.”
Until then, I’ll keep twirling. Harry, save me a seat at the fashion table — preferably one next to the boas.