It seems I fell into a funky fresh birds nest and flew out looking fully-fledged Coachella, BAY-BEH. Flares are e.v.e.r.y.w.h.e.r.e. and – annoying as it can be when you’re in despo need of a mighty fine ankle grazer and nowhere is fulfilling your needs – I, for one, am a fan; a long-time one, at that. For the laydeez like me who are packing in the backing, with unfortunately short limbs and a fortunately small waist, flares are a gift from the garment gods. “Why?”, you ask. It’s quite simple, really: the high-waist emphasises our smallest area and the tight jersey moulds around our bountiful bottoms, whilst the flare makes our little ol’ legs look deceptively long. I’ve opted for flares so long that my feet are nowhere near visible, thus giving the illusion that I am, indeed, that tall and that heels had absolutely no part to play in my growth spurt. Care to flare? OF COURSE YOU DO!
P.S. Apologies for the abundance of photos but Tiger and I found thee most bodacious blossom tree under which to shoot and it would be sacrilegious of me not to douse my blog in the dazzling blooms via her dazzling photog skillz.