“when you arise in the morning, think of what a precious privilege it is to be alive – to breathe, to think, to enjoy, to love.” // m. aurelius

my mum used to say that i would wake up with the birds.

at sunrise, i’d spring out of bed and sing, (read: never stop talking), until it was time to trail ten strides behind my brother, (to not sully his cool quotient), and make our way to school.

i didn’t mind getting up – i was, as they say, a keener. excited to get the day started, to find out what i’d learn, to see what grade i got, to make sure i then got home in time, to pick up the phone when the automated call came in informing our parent and/or guardian, (me), that my brother had skipped a class, (or all of them); then lord it over him until he punched me in the leg and called it a day. then i’d go to bed, and eight hours later, it would start all over again.

now, in my deep 30s, i can no longer say that i greet the dawn with such zeal. i’m slow to wake, slower to rise, achey in places i didn’t know i had when i was younger, and sad that the day has started yet once again, so soon, so suddenly — so without any excitement.

don’t get me wrong, the smiles happen eventually, i’m not in as deep a mid-life rut as that, but now, more than ever before, i’m finding i need a few more things to get me going – other than just the prospect of a new day and a smile on my face.








➝ source :  pure castille tea tree soap via dr. bronners

➝ source : reviving eye cream via omorovicza

➝ source : anti-aging primer potion via urban decay

➝ source : eye bright pencil via benefit cosmetics

➝ and a shout-out to coffee, via juan valdez. i couldn’t have done any of this without you.





“it was one of those humid days when the atmosphere gets confused. sitting on the porch, you could feel it: the air wishing it was water.” // j. eugenides

you’d think that after so many years of patience, practice and sheer will, i’d have this down to a science. that this first day, this first day of upper lip sweat, the heat on the back of my neck like a vice from within dante’s inferno wouldn’t cause such dismay; that after all these decades of summers, i’d be able to contain the curl – that i could live inside this fog of hair and understand what makes it tick.

but here it is, it’s happened, and i’m still not able to deal and i don’t think i ever will. it feels like 32°C and you guys, i’m having to talk myself through it and then out of it and then back into the splendor of an a/c unit.

hi, i’m bianca – and i’m the summer naysayer, come walk with me; i’ll help you tame that frizz, and you’ll help me dab the slight sheen of sweat from my lip.

it’ll be fun.

i promise.






➝ source : bamboo smooth anti-humidity hair spray via alterna

➝ source : oud royal mega-curl enhancer via philip b.

➝ source : momo fluid via davines

➝ source : r+co foil control spray via co. bigelow


“a well-used minimum suffices for everything.” // j. verne

a certain wardrobe, possibly my own, begs the question:

can you be considered a minimalist if the clothes hanging in your closet are abundantly practical and functional, yet the sheer number of items buckle under the weight of their hangers? i mean, i think we’re bordering on hoarder-levels of excessiveness; and i think i have to come to terms with that although the aesthetic may be minimal and favors functionality – variety is still very much the spice in my life.

how many sheer gauze black tunics can a girl have? there is no correct answer. how many washed-wisps-of-cotton dresses could a girl slip her curly head into? all of them, it seems. how many diaphanous kimonos can someone throw over her shoulders as easily as she does spilled salt? oh, right, add those to the list as well. fine – i can admit it, though my taste runs minimal, my collection of clothing is decidedly not.





➝ source : satori jacket via shaina mote

➝ source : white shirt-dress via ali golden

➝ source : cocoon trench via elizabeth suzann

➝ source : black crane jumpsuit via steven alan

“age shouldn’t affect you. it’s just like the size of your shoes – they don’t determine how you live your life! you’re either marvelous or you’re boring, regardless of your age. // s.p. morrissey

it must be that along with pickling myself in rosé, (read: five sips), i’ve begun to think of my age as a time to try things anew.

perhaps those things that never quite stuck, and seeing if enough time has lapsed since my first pass of hating it, to that optimistic second pass of being all right with it. i see it as a ‘if at first you don’t succeed, dust yourself off and try again,’ (you know, roughly a decade later), to prove that i’m not resistant to change and that age doesn’t have to mean sticking your heels in the sand and refusing to budge. at least, this is what i keep telling myself.

and so, along with my night wine, i’ve been thinking about bringing back the clog – neither a heel, nor a wedge – it’s a happy medium where the giddiness lies in my not being utterly uncomfortable and wanting to gnaw my feet off at the ankles, paired with that delicious click-cloppy noise they make on floors.

in reality, i know i’ll probably never get around to wearing them, but the thinking about it, that’s half the battle won.





➝ source : crossover clog in cement via no.6

➝ source : sabot black/natural platform clogs via rick owens

➝ source : hitchhiker open toe clog via rachel comey

➝ source : braided low heel clogs via swedish hasbeens

“we’re all pretty bizarre. some of us are just better at hiding it, that’s all.” // j. hughes

you’re all probably much too young to remember the cinematic, yet aging masterpiece that is ‘the breakfast club‘ — but for me, it left an indelible mark ever since i watched it, at the much too young age of nine.

rented! from a video store! on a vhs tape! to be played back on a vcr! it was by my request that my parents sullied the minds and ears of a group of nine year olds with a veritable shit-ton of swears and themes that were most definitely a bit too mature.

as jaded as any nine-year old could be, it didn’t shock or awe, but it stirred something in me that i don’t think i’ve had the want to shake in, oh-sigh-time-is-a-relentless-bitch, 30 years – and that’s that i think claire should’ve left allison’s mall makeover at home.

it’s bothered me for years that a certain look, that dirty-haired, kohl-rimmed eye, slightly wan complexion had to be ‘prettied up’ with pinks, frills, and a headband seemingly made out of the elastic waist of a pair of department store lady’s underwear. the makeover makeover makeover makeover, [click it, come on, do it!], has always left me underwhelmed.

i just don’t think people need them – we’re pretty good how we are, or however we allow ourselves to leave the house each day – sure, sometimes we need to be refreshed, renewed, or updated evenbut i think unless someone tells you they want to change who they are, i’d aver – leave well enough alone. it’s not an issue of being resistant to change, but settling in, quite comfortably thank you very much, into who you are.

okay, that’s it – this oprah-lite-self-acceptance week has got to end.






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➝ source : acne retexture pad via cane + austin

➝ source : clio eyeguard waterproof eyeliner via peach & lily

➝ source : sheer lip color in bobbi via bobbi brown cosmetics

➝ source : blush in gaiety via nars

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