The Snob and The Social Reflex: Part Un

Am I frowning? But, boy, is it bright . . . Oh right, I have shades on. Am I still frowning?Urgh, it’s the public.


Please feel free to mention how absolutely dressed down I am, blending in so as to not have to garner any unsolicited attention from locals.Yeah right. We know the only blending in I’m good at is the blending in that involves the bronzer on my cheekbones and the blush on my cheeks. Now THAT’S what I call a natural transition. Do you think maybe I should’ve highlighted just above the cheekbone? Or a darker contour in the . . . Well, contour above my jawline. Hold on, I’m veering off.

Does it help that my schedule won’t allow for me to manage these cuticles, and so yes, they’ve got my attention in this place, surrounded by people who could also probably use a manicure. What an utterly boring distraction. When am I getting a grooming buddy?

So last November, I got myself (after much consideration and motivation from two of the closest non-women in my life, never again) a pair of sneakers!!!! *Gasp* Yes, sneakers. Why am I gasping? Why aren’t you? Well, you see I haven’t owned a sneaker since 5 years ago when it made sense to be so colloquially dressed, walking about, identifying as young and carefree. Of course, the pairs were well embellished. One, black padded quilting like a Chanel purse, the other with pink accents and a pink sole, and the other, a regular Converse high-top except for the doodles/grafitti that it was decorated with. Yes, they were all bought like that, picked out of a selection of bland running shoes. You see, I don’t think sneakers are shoes, I think of them as more of a necessary tool, like prescription medication (shoes for like, running and stuff?). So planning my outfits around these sneakers gave me a bit of a headache. Not to mention I had to learn how to walk in them, how ironic. Bite me.

So this is world’s apart from the postural exercise I’m used to. The ‘tuck in your butt, point your toes, drop your shoulders, hold in your core, hold your gaze in a thin, long imaginary line shooting straight forward’.

fancy outfit and sneakers

Nope. It’s basically ‘walk’. I found myself lifting my heel for no reason, arch-less, ball-less, stepping of the one foot followed by the other. Like . . . A boy.

Hey hey! The plus side. I can walk REALY fast, heck I can run! Do you know how exciting that is? Other than the fact that I might NEED to run (from something/someone, most likely for something, like a bus, out of the way of an asshole driver (read: right of way) or because I’m in a hurry or all of a sudden I realise that if I run now, I won’t have do those lunges later!). Reality is such a pain in the bunion.


Sigh, anyway. Or whatever. Sneakers.

They make feel a little less poised than I want to (maybe ought to) feel, a little less feminine, a little less entitled, a little . . . Low maintenance. Like a sliding door as opposed to a vault. Like an A4 page with a feint and margin as opposed to a taupe woodgrain wallpaper sprawling across 5metres . . . Like I can’t be excused for not knowing the meaning of the new slang word doing the rounds. Like ice, melting in a glass of room temperature water . . . And my feet still hurt.


They also make me feel like I should know the lyrics to A$AP Rocky/Drake/Kanye songs or perhaps just the names of pop artists and their shenanigans to begin with (Getting there), they make me feel like I can actually dance in a place other than in front of the mirror in my room. They make me feel like I’m drinking, like a lot more water than I am, they make me feel like college kid identifying as young and I guess I sort of am. It’s as if I’m not wearing shoes . . . I won’t repeat that prescription part, you know what I mean.

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I will never complain about the glamorous discomfort that heels provide, about the sway aiding the one already created by my waist-to-hip ratio, about the stuttering footsteps, the walking carefully down a flight of stairs, the hand I might need getting across badly maintained pavements, the sloth pace, not even the ankle I might break by walking carelessly. I mean, I said “never” right? Like, what do you want from me?

Shout out to all the snobs who drab away in flat colloquial shoes for necessity only to get home and slip on your favourite pair of heels to maintain that sought after arch in your foot and just revel in wearing something that was made for poise, statement and flair. Until your whole schedule of excuses to wear heels fills up, soak it all in.

And the next time you go out for a jol and your insensitive friend (we all have one) tries to hurry you, followed by, “Why are you wearing heels?” you have my go ahead to answer in a mini tantrum “Because I FUCKING WANT TO!”. Just do it.

P.S. Pictures of other people because I mean, I’m not ready to be photographed with sneakers on, like . . . Also, they are killing it. Go girls.

Over and (running) out.

The Snob.

5 Minutes With The Snob

Why are you so distracted?

Imaan Hamman getting even prettier. Photo:

Woah, woah woah! Start from the top. Don’t just come here and start talking prose from your ass. Take a deep a breath, I mean like wtf?

I’m a feminist now. So can I say ‘girls’ or ‘chicks’ referring to women? What about bitches and hoes, what’s the verdict on those? And sluts? Or should I say actively sexual exploiters, personally or otherwise . . . In the exploiting and not the dressing. Come on, wake up.

Go home Bob, you’re rich.

You know what I was thinking? . . . Nothing.

Do you think I need more hairspray?

Sui He “Is this smudging? Should I stop talking after this?”

If I’m not in the front, then why am I here?

Nice pot plant. Do you have an indoor gardener for your indoor plants or do you just spritz them from your water bottle?

You’re on ‘Brow-Duty’, I don’t want to feel betrayed when I look in the mirror later.

Do you have everything?

I don’t, for the life of me, understand why there isn’t any music playing.

Stockings, hmmm.

How’re my brows?



Love ya, bye.

xoxo. The Snob.

Walk In’s


This is probably going to be a weird post, unless you’re either like me or completely stoned. Not that I’m stoned just that stoners ‘get me’.

It’s not exactly about ‘walk in’s except that it might end up being. Ideally, it’s supposed to end up being about ‘walk in’s because that’s the title right? And if it isn’t then you’ll have a laugh and enjoy reading this (hopefully) because I’m not really planning to edit it for subject matter.

Awww I’m listening to Vanilla Fudge – I LOVE FUCKING VANILLA FUDGE! Anyway I was thinking about walk in situations, whether you walk into a conversation or walk into someone you know or any walk in, the point is -that shit is always funny or awkward or just plain weird. Okay well, for starters Vanilla Fudge isn’t playing anymore because someone walked in and asked for it to shut up, classic moment. Let’s categorize . . .

The “what are you doing?”: If you haven’t experienced this one, you must be less than a year old, really. We’ve all had that one, sorry for you if that happened when you were masturbating and your mom walked in. You poor thing. Perhaps you were hiding your stash under the bed in which case you suddenly utter, “Uh I dropped . . . A coin, I think it’s somewhere here”, you can’t ever get through any of it unless  you generally have one facial expression, if that’s not the case you’d have gone all crimson or pale as in BUSTED! In my case, the “What are you doing?” doesn’t happen anymore, but it’s rough and it takes a while for it to turn into a joke. Just imagine two weeks later jokingly saying, “Hey remember that day you caught me hiding that paper that I was going to stick into my diary and you demanded I give it to you, and then you read it and figured that I think of you as Godzilla! Ahahaha!”, so not fucking funny. It’s been like, three years and it’s still not funny. Ooh and the time I hid my syringe (without a needle) just because it was a party idea, like lets have shots through a syringe. Parents will think that you’re on drugs before they think you’re a rad as fuck innovative party planner!

The “So what are you guys talking about?”: Yeah you have no idea that we just called you a fugly-fashion-zombie when you went to the bathroom and now you’re back . . . So we say “We were JUST talking about how stressed Jerry is with his new job . . .” and Jerry is like, “Yeah, so stressed, like oh my gosh, I forgot what it’s like to sleep”. It’s worse when the question is in your facial expression than you actually asking it. Sometimes it’s cool because you can just walk in there and be like “Yeah I know right?”, join the current and flow with it! My friends used to do this thing where they’d walk in and say, “I like grapes”, just to exaggerate the awkward moment. You know when you walk into a touchy subject that you’ll be faced with absolute deafening silence, but that’s okay. Give people space and go fiddle with your eyebrows or paint your nails . . . Again.

The “Two (insert word) walk into a bar . . .”: This is the one I most relate to. In my case it’s mostly “Two very well dressed people walk in a bar”. Not to blow my own horn, but most people go to places looking like turds. Either they’ve tried too hard or haven’t tried at all or even tried to look so bad or good that it shows (and it shows like a turd). For a person who understands and studies fashion, lifestyles and movements, it’s easy to see right through the fakes and posers and badly dressed idiots who are out to please and fit in with the rest of the idiots. Also in place of the (insert word) are the ‘teenagers’, ‘hipsters’, ‘goths’, ‘hoodrats’, ‘hoboes’, ‘white people‘, ‘models’, ‘black people’, ‘asians’, ‘mixed couple’, ‘hot girls’, ‘fugly girls’ etc. It all depends where you are and you’ll always know when you’re the two (insert word) that walks into a bar.

The “Oh my gosh, is that . . .?”: It’s always a ‘Holy shit’ or a ‘Yay!’ and both of these have their in-betweens. Like, the girl you partied with last Summer is around, you’ve been texting and now you can talk about all the bullshit and trash the place. If it’s a so-called celebrity, no one ever really cares. Or it’s that bitch you had a public feud with and all you both say is, “Hi, so how are things?”- awkward. I mean, they can be the best thing or the worst. Weird one is where you’re like, “Oh my gosh, is that Jenna?” and by this time you’re fucking more than convinced it’s your dear friend, Jenna, even though you can only see her back . . . You run up to her like a teen girl running to Bieber and shout “Oh my gosh, Jenna!” and then you realise she isn’t Jenna, ouch . . .

The “Look what the cat dragged in”: This one is always annoying, all of a sudden your feet feel the pain that they’re in. You get slapped stone cold sober or feel like you had you’ve had about twenty shots in one go. I’ve seen this happen with other people, their noses seem to automatically reach for the ceiling, you can determine whether it’s ‘We’re better than you’ or ‘We can’t see you’. By this time, that person realises this and hides! Shit is weird.

The “LMAO and ROTFL: Like in college when someone walks into the wrong class with an entrance of note and you all know you’ve never seen that face before, like when someone walks in with something on their face or just after running during a beastly wind. Actually sometimes you’re just as confused as the funny person, because you’re thinking “Oh my gosh, your face looks like it’s been photoshopped, is your mirror blur?” or “Really now, why’d you have to dye your hair THAT colour?”. Hmm, you don’t want to be the main character in the “LMAO/ROTFL” walk in and if you are, make it iconic.

The “Thank God you’re here!”: Haha, this one is classic. Isn’t this the theme of most house parties? It’s supposed to be all cosy and warm except that it’s almost ice cold because you don’t know anyone there (because everyone invited their friend’s friend’s friends) and the host is making out with a random in the garden. That’s when the “Two (insert word) walk into (not)  a bar comes in handy. If you’re interesting enough, people will ask where you got your shoes, but then you’re still talking to randoms or in any other case, you’re talking to people who you can’t stand. If you ever see someone in a texting frenzy, you know they’re waiting for their “Thank God you’re here” person to arrive. The end of that sentence is “Ah I got so sick of these hipsters talking about dubstep” or something along that line. You poor things.

The “I heard what you said about me”: This one, perhaps, is specific to movies and shit we see on TV. Honestly who stands by the door and then walks in and says, “You’re going to have to tell me what?” or “What ABOUT Adrian?”, you sneaky bastard. You already heard how your present company is plotting to ruin your ‘sort of’ friend’s career by poisoning them or how your jerky boyfriend is cheating on you or something. Why don’t you just walk in, break shit and scream, “I knew it!” or tell them how you like grapes?

There are lots more, like when someone you know but don’t really like makes the effort to join your conversation in a desperate attempt to be seen with you. Losers. How about when some lesbian purposely walks into (not bumps into) your boobs or when some trashy whore is trying to offend your date/girlfriend by moving through the crowd and purposefully squashing her boobs on you (When it comes to my friends and I, we’ve already lowered our drinks to her crotch and since she’s moving so much she gets spilt on and looks like she pissed her pants, followed by “Oh sorry”, props to Courtney Love for teaching us offensive manners). It all borders on rude and obnoxious or accidental and uncomfortable, either way it’s also hilarious, because we don’t plan the scenes we’re in before we get cast in them. If it’s that bad, you can always just pull a zap sign. There are the lines: “Don’t you have some place to be?”, “So who’re here with?” which both mean ‘Fuck off’ or if it’s just funny, why not joke about it there and then and have a good laugh? Of course you can fuss and you can hide and isolate yourself because it’s ‘so embarrassing, but that’s definitely NOT what a snob does. Put a little snob in you . . .


The Snob












Andrew Mons for Augustine

When I received the invite for the launch of a new Male Muse and range for Augustine (ANDREW MONS for AUGUSTINE – [Save the Date]), I took it seriously. Very very fucking seriously.

I remember when it was my dear friend Jerome (Homme Jerome for Augustine), I was as proud as a Doberman mom hearing her puppy growl for the first time! Like ” Wow, look at you 🙂 “. It was a party well hosted, with mostly well-dressed and well-mannered entertaining individuals. So this time, I freaked out completely (the excited,ecstatic kind), planning my outfit, scanning for tiny little white dresses, in fact I was sure as hell that I’d rock up in a little white dress and pastel accessories until the dress I made was too short and became a top instead. After a whole month, yes MONTH, of planning , ‘saving the date’ as if it were a birth control appointment, playing dress up the night before, laying items on the bed during my pregame with my boyfriend (the one person who knows that if I’m planning an outfit a month before an event, it’s something we’re definitely going to), the day had finally come! I settled on an outfit that had nothing to do white and went all Isabel Marant (brown suede shorts) meets Balmain (some type of embroided sheer navy blue waistcoat and a black cropped blazer with gold buttons). One thing you MUST know is that this outfit probably wouldn’t hang anywhere else,with envious eyes of bitches who don’t give a shit to work out but give a shit to comment on someone that does and shows off  her hard work, this was another kind of crowd. Appreciative,I guess and I was proud of myself when the comments were along the lines of “I love your top, it’s so risqué”, which was exactly what I was going for.

Now for the muse and the range! Oh wait, did I mention the drinks buffet? Snob’s favourite, I don’t know if there was any other buffet but it wouldn’t have interested me or anyone else,pfft.

pastels and prints= win!

If you missed the patterned belt loops you probably weren’t invited.

Love the trimming on those shorts and the fabric of the shirt was very un-golf-shirty which is great.

Hiding the tattoos under a shirt that night, I see.

Should I continue saying anything? I will, obviously. We met Andrew pretty late in the night but the few hours spent talking to this colourful individual were definitely notable. He had a more serious toned conversation with my boyfriend than with me and the crowd – being able to make that switch between bitchy, funny, intelligent and laid back to level-headed business creative is a freaking desirable social skill. We did however have a conversation about the stresses of blogging, shit isn’t easy (I’ve been writing for 4+hours). By the way, those dungarees- I know it’s a menswear range but I could really see myself wearing them with my heeled oxfords, a sheer blouse and a bib necklace!

Okay, honestly I know the photos I took aren’t of the best quality. I had to choose between my handbag and my Nikon DSLR which are the SAME SIZE, that and trying to hold a drink and a cigarette and trying to take a photo with that beast, so naturally I chose my handbag and cigarette (and unfortunately not-so-great photos). Anyway, I have photos of the lovely snobs I met :), you know that if I remember your name after a half day hangover which I slept off and had iced-teas for the rest of the day, then you’re really mighty cool. So big shout outs to my fellow snobs: Leeroy Duke-dressed in Andrew Mons, Lisa- girl is beyond crazy, Gareth- I still remember your hair, Justine- owner of the shop and I realised she changed her hair colour and she has such a lovely speaking voice, Justin-the blondie who had Jerome’s lighter (gotcha), Jason and Shelly-cute cute cute cute cute! And of course Andrew Mons.

Jerome and Justine looking dashing at the Homme Jerome launch.


Jerome and I.

I’ve given up on my captions for now because my laptop is acting ghetto, but our little party got swarmed for a while, and somewhere in those photos are the betchiest, most fabulous people I met and my lovely fiance. Also, I apologise for anyone in these photos who does not look gorgeous, because you obviously are (if your name is listed). I can’t leave you with that, can I? No fucking way, here’s my favourite campaign picture . . .

Fucking Brilliant!

And a video. Your Personal Style Bitches!