I’m done fucking around. “The best haircuts for your face shape.” Ok? “The best hats for a Warm Summer,” whatever the hell that is. “Best dresses to buy for an inverted triangle body type.” What the hell do all these words mean, and how do I start speaking this secret feminine language I am so clearly missing out on?
If I knew that I was pear-shaped or triangle-shaped or hourglass-shaped or sack-shaped or whatever, I’d be able to buy clothes that make me look like Bella Hadid instead of the troll in Amish silhouettes I assume I currently look like according to every piece of women’s media.
I’ve worked my ass off and risen through the ranks to become Editor-in-Chief of this here goddamn paper, the one you’re reading right now. But I don’t know what shape my face is, so as a woman, I have unfortunately failed at my purpose in life, and that’s the long and the short and the square and the heart-faced and the oval and the rectangular of it.
One has to assume that if I knew my face shape, everything would be different. I’d have a striking haircut that emphasizes my natural features. No mortal man would be able to resist me– “wow, the neckline of that shirt perfectly matches the angles of her jaw,” they would all say. Instead, the girls whose sunglasses frame their cheekbones get all the guys, and I’m stuck in the corner with all the other facially ignorant freaks.
Thanks for nothing, Every Three Weekly. What does a leadership position and bunch of great friends and a consistent creative outlet for four years even do for me if it didn’t teach me to strictly wear silver jewelry because gold would wash out the undertones in my neck skin?
