While I've always understood that Sassy was revolutionary and forward-looking in all kinds of ways (thanks, Jane!), what I didn't realize was that their fashion department was staffed by time-traveling wizards who were able to predict exactly what I would want to wear in 2014.
Seriously, this is some Marty McFly level shit. And I mean that in the best, puffy-orange-vest way possible.
So let us harken back to Sassy's days of yore and marvel over the fact that their fashion spreads were killing it. And then let's all hold each other and weep as we realize that none of this clothing has been available for nigh on 20 years. And then let's spam each other with links to our favourite ’90s-inspired collections.
First of all, let me say right off that I want everything pictured here. Starting from the picture on the left: I want that vintage fringed Pendleton jacket. I want that fucking adorable dress. I want to be basking in the blinding prairie sunshine. I want a little tree to stand next to. I want that sober-as-fuck English schoolgirl/Little Red Riding hood duffle coat. I want that gingham dress. I want that petticoat. WHY DO I NOT OWN THAT PETTICOAT.
I would slit your dog's throat if it meant I could own those boots.
So I guess this spread is where Todd Haynes got the idea for "I'm Not There." Is there anything objectively sexier than a woman dressed in perfectly tailored men's clothing? I am here to tell you that no, there is not. Looking at these pictures makes me want to throw every dress I own in the garbage and start dressing like the old Italian men who sit out in front of the diner near my house and catcall every woman who walks by (which is problematic but also sort of charming because they're all cute little octogenarians, and their catcalls pretty much consist of “Eh! Bella! You are so beautiful today!” which is not great but also not the worst).
But seriously. I cannot overstate how much the slightly oversized, collar-askew dress shirt with the tweed vest and high-waisted pants is Doing It For Me. I want to lick her neck while she wears that shirt. I want her to look into my eyes and tell me that she does not care about anything. Because she doesn't. Maybe she did once, but not now. Everything objectionable is gone -– all of her fears, her insecurities, her belief in the gender binary. All that's left is her incandescent soul, shielded from the elements by a butter-soft vintage leather jacket.
CAN WE PLEASE BRING BACK SPARKLY HAIR GEL.
WHY HAS NO ONE THOUGHT OF THIS YET.
GET ON IT, FASHION ASSHOLES.
I had a tub of this shit from my local headshop, one Shakedown Street in Kitchener, Ontario whose sign promised to take care of all my psychedelic needs. I never bought any of their bongs, but this hair gel sure made my head look rad.
Also I'm pretty stoked about this Kaylee Frye-inspired hairdo. It's sort of sexy "Star Trek" alien meets Renaissance Lady bedhead, which I didn't know until now was a thing I was into but hey you learn something every day.
Full disclosure: I do not know what a shemp is. I tried to Google it, and the first thing that came up was a porn site. If someone could please tell me what a shemp is, I would super appreciate it.
With regards to the clothing and accessories pictured here, I'm especially in love with that flannel-lined jacket/Wild West shirt combo and the “Western rucksack.” They're shades of The Royal Tenenbaum's Eli Cash. You can wear them and walk around lamenting about how you always wanted to be a Tenenbaum. Then you can send your grades and press clippings to your best friend's mom and do some coke* and think about what a sad/hot weirdo you are.
I also really love the “skater-esque” dress with the “surprising ruffle.” I am very surprised, ruffle! You have really put one over on me. In a good way.
*I actually do not advise you to go out and do some coke. Please don't go out and do some coke. And I'm not even saying that because of liability issues, but because I genuinely care about you and want you to have a good life.
Pristine white docs: check
Very short, high-waisted skirt: check
Cute printed crop top: check
Too much blue eyeshadow: check
Yes. Yes. Yes. I want this look.
Seeing this picture has plunged me into a deep abyss of regret over the fact that I do not own skinny purple ankle-grazing dress pants that go all the way up to my belly button. This is like the moment in the "Truman Show" when he realizes that his whole life is and always has been a lie. My life has also been a lie, in as much as I feel that the universe has been keeping the existence of these exquisite pants hidden from me.
The axis of the earth has tilted, and I don't know how I'll be able to keep going in this skinny-purple-pants-desert.
Those pleats are as sharp as knives, knives that carve up my pants-loving heart.
I cannot believe that I'm about to say this, but: I think overalls are coming back.
Overalls are coming back and I'm not afraid.
My great-grandfather hated overalls. HATED THEM. He was a dock worker and he wore overalls all day and he was super embarrassed about this fact because classism I guess. When he came home from work he would put on a three piece suit because he thought that's what a “gentleman” did. He forbade his children from wearing overalls, because he'd worked his whole damn life so that they could go to school and get good jobs and not have to be a poor overall-wearing slob like him.
I'm sorry, Grampy.
There is a fashion feature on band T-shirts. BAND T-SHIRTS.
Also, my three-year-old legit owns that exact Ramones shirt:
I would also wear everything my kid is wearing in that picture. Rock on, son.
I know it's cliché and terrible, but I really want one of those fake (at least, I'm assuming they're fake?) deer heads for my wall. And I want to be able to wear a scarf tied around my neck with that kind of élan. And I want more opportunities to use the word élan.
I love how the clothing in this spread is described as INNOCENT and sexy and naive and SOPHISTICATED. Was this copy written by one Humbert Humbert? Because it kind of sounds like it.
Also, I now really, really want a table covered in STACKS of donuts.
In conclusion, I will leave you with your fashion icon, Kathleen Hanna. Study her. Memorize the way she stands, how she leans into that gut-wrenching chord. Learn to bang your head just so, nodding to the rhythm of your furious song in a way that makes your tangled locks fall into your eyes. Stock up on sequined garters. Play so fucking loud that the dude behind you has to plug his ears. Because you are a sonic medusa, a siren of punk, and if he looks into your eyes or hears your song, he will be lost forever.