It was the summer I ruined a $5,000 dress. The summer I had a noticeable southern accent and Jewish roommates; the summer of sweaty errand running and a cool 63 degree window AC. The summer I read Lolita and lived the real life Tree Grows in Brooklyn; the summer that tasted like Brooklyn Lager, St. Germain and unsweet tea; the summer filled to the brim with late night city strolls and too many ice cream runs; the summer of growth and self discovery, challenged faith and questioned motives; the church on Mulberry, the grocery store on Prince and the cupcakes next door; the summer with new friends, passionate strangers, lost connections and forever acquaintances. It was the summer my hair grew out; the summer I discovered true beauty and how to be me. They say the best is always the most recent, but I'm not quite sure what could top the summer spent on Broome Street. The summer of 21 is one I'll never forget.
[jacket-ragged priest, pants-madewell (old), shoes-manolo blahnik]
Thank you so much, Ali for dressing me, letting me borrow your beautiful shoes and taking these awesome photos. We decided I looked Greaser-chic with my slicked back hair, white tee and denim jacket. I always identified more with Ponyboy, but this Johnny look suits me well—if Johnny didn't die and wore sequin harem pants.