The Slow, Steady, and Tragic Decline of the Man Bun

The movement started with a faint whisper—tales of glorious strands being pulled back into a tight little knot and sman-manes billowing in the wind, only to be tamed by the strength of an elastic band. Originating with dirty Australian backpackers and steadily finding its way onto the heads of Brooklyn's elite, the bohemian hairstyle, centuries old, began to find a new life. But from these arcane subcultures it streamed forth, ensnaring men who had previously sworn by a clean cut and a fresh shave. These former prepsters found themselves starring into bathroom mirrors and asking friends, "Yo, what do you think about me growing out my hair?" with mock nonchalance and heightened self-awareness. However, when the top knot started appearing in the most mundane of settings—a fast food commercial here, a Forever 21 ad there—there was no denying it: The man bun had gone mainstream. They could be spotted on subway cars, at the Met, in Trader Joe's—there were even sightings in Murray Hill, much to the outward disgust and secret pleasure of the local fro-yo imbibing females.

Then slowly but surely, articles started popping up defaming the holy aesthetic, vindictively announcing the "shocking" amounts of bacteria found on beards and smashing every germaphobe's dreams (not mine, of course, I embrace all forms of microorganisms). Moreover, a recent study confirmed that 63% of women now despise the man bun trend. So when did the tide begin to turn? Why did popular opinion rise against, and what was the catalyst that started denying the man bun the admiration it deserves? 

Perhaps it was the same fate that happened upon flower crowns: While beautiful and pure in appearance, well-meaning and ethereal, they belong to a different time, a different place. Floral headdresses were created to grace the heads of nymphs in Botticelli paintings, so at music festivals they come across as trite and overeager. One could argue that by exuding masculinity and strength, the man bun belongs in a world of battlefields and armor, bloodshed and glory (think Jon Snow meets Thor). Even I, self-proclaimed lover of all things facial hair, sensed my own recent recoiling when I unfollowed Man Bun Monday, an Instagram account whose images I used to tag friends on religiously, but has gradually begun to feel tired and erroneous. 

With that said, it is still with great sadness that I bid the fad farewell, and usher in an era of close crops and undercuts. Au revoir man buns—society may be moving on, but I will never deny you a subtle nod of appreciation when die-hards pass me by on the street, throwing all cares of trend and popularity to the wind, along with their beautiful heads of hair. 

The L Train; or, Why Some People Choose Not to Live in NYC

A photo posted by chantal strasburger (@chantagold) on Jul 18, 2014 at 8:47am PDT

Today I'm going to write about what's currently on my mind: public transportation. Sexy, eh?

Here's what's up: I live two blocks from the L train. The line runs straight from Brooklyn to Manhattan, and I'm off the first stop out. So it would make sense for me to take the L into Manhattan, transfer at Union Square to the 4/5 and make my way down to the brand-spankin-new-but-also-sort-of-falling-apart One World Trade Center. SUUUPER convenient morning commute right? Right. Except also very wrong. Let me explain how this route goes down IRL (and why I no longer take it).

6:30am: Alarm goes off. I lace up my sneaks and head to the gym for an early morning sweat sesh.

7:30: Realize that was only wishful dreaming and I have just been repeatedly hitting snooze every five minutes for the past hour.

8:40: After bathing, clothing, and feeding myself, I head out the door.

8:45: Descend into the pits of hell that is the Bedford L stop on a Monday morning. Platform is packed with rows upon rows of impatient New Yorkers (redundant?).

8:55: MTA voice from above kindly informs us that there is a delay, and that the next train arriving will not stop. We all miserably watch as a packed L passes us by along with our hopes, dreams, and aspirations.

9:05: The first train comes to a stop. It is so full that an exact average of 1.5 people make it onto each car.

9:10-9:25: This continues as the population of the platform grows and people save twitter drafts of crowd-selfies (why)(because there is no cell service).

9:30: I use my creative problem-solving skills and deductive reasoning to realize that if I take the L train going further into Brooklyn a few stops, my chances of actually making it onto a train increase. I take it three stops towards Rockaway Pkwy, cross over ABOVE ground and re-enter on the other side to squeeze onto a Manhattan-bound train. ha HA! My plan works and I am feeling smug even though I am making direct skin contact with no less than four strangers.

9:40: Half-sympathetically/half-maniacally watch as no one at the Bedford stop can get on. Sayonara, suckers (also sorry!)

10:20: Arrive to work late, commiserate with co-workers about living in bRoOkLyn ugh, and vow never to take the L again.

SO. That is the story of how I left my abusive relationship of one and a half years with the goddamn L train and started taking the J.

The J is a dream. The cars are wider, rarely packed, and—best of all—it crosses the Williamsburg bridge so you start your day off with a stunning view of Manhattan looking out over the water and you remember why you love this city ha ha ha. Above ground time is time well spent. The only catch is it's about a 30 minute walk from my apartment. So it now takes me an hour to commute. Which is fine because I view my morning walks as "me" time where I listen to podcasts, observe the slow but steady gentrification of South Williamsburg, and think about how I didn't go to the gym that morning. It's also the perfect distance to hit just the right amount of cardio so that when I leave my apartment I'm freezing but by the time I get to the platform I'm sweating!

Next time on Daily Commuting with Chantal: "The Ferry: New York's Best Kept Secret, Sort Of".

Desert Chic

Fashion inspiration can strike in the most random of places, from subway rides with strangers to street art in the 'hood. I recently watched the short film Lady Lonely, and I can't stop thinking about this cropped shirt/overall combo worn by Sosie Bacon. The boxiness of the collared top protruding out from the sides of the bib creates a wonderfully playful silhouette, and I'm dying to track down substitutes to cop the look. Now, if I was swimming in money (give me time), I'd just buy those exact pieces—the flick is outfitted by Brooklyn-based boutique In God We Trust. When I pass their storefront in Williamsburg, I have to manually restrain my head from checking out their display. History has proven that I WILL want that quirky printed dress in the window and that I WON'T be able to afford it. But so is life.

The short film, written and directed by Janey Feingold, is also worth a watch for it's whimsically abstract characters and though-provoking plot. Beautifully shot, its fashion plates are just a bonus prize. Watch the video below and keep an eye out for a cropped button-down for me, won't you?

Selfie Journalism

Guess what! I wrote an article for Teen Vogue about living my life as a YoPro in the big apple. Pretty cool, huh? Check it out here for some tips and advice on everything from where to eat on the cheap to how to decorate your apt. 

Playing on Repeat: Champs

Stumbled across "My Spirit Is Broken" by Champs and haven't been able to stop playing it. Give it a whirl and lemme know what you think.

 x

Starlight Express

My friend Grant was in town the other week, and the first thing he requested to do? "Roller disco". More specifically, the "Crazy Legs Skate Club" roller disco.  Located inside a Salvation Army in Brooklyn, this spectacle happens every Wednesday night with a live DJ.

The three block radius of this building is completely dead, so we heard the music blaring from the gymnasium before we even turned the corner. If we hadn't been about to enter a rollerblading disco party, I might have feared for my life. The street was dark and there was no one in sight, but slowly, one by one, people started to roll up. Literally. Out of the shadows, people came skating up to the door in their roller blades. They meant business. My care-free attitude about the night's events quickly turned into an, "Oh My God I am so in over my head." As we walked in, people were standing around in their skates, socializing with drinks and snacks in the entry room. It was a mixture of young hipsters in high-waisted mom jeans and older, die-hard locals in un-irconically high-waisted mom jeans. We paid our $15 (steep!) and sat down to put on our skates.

On our way over, Ariella had been confessing her anxiety about getting back on skates for the first time since the '90s. While I was in the same boat, I had this idea in my head that rollerblading is one of those things that, even if you were terrible the last time you attempted, the power of time and maturity would magically have enhanced your skills. I would pop into those bad boys and skate away like Nancy Kerrigan pre-Tanya Harding. Fun fact: Nope. I refused to stand for the first 10 minutes, terrified out of my mind. These weren't inline skates, mind you. These were those terrible, old-school kind with the "brake" in the front. But the "brake" is actually impossible to use so you have to adopt a kind of pizza-wedge technique I typically reserve for skiing. And while Grant and Michael swore they hadn't skated in years, they zipped away like the graceful water nymph and child of an ex-Rollerblade employee (true story) that they are.

My second mistake of the night: "Oh, a disco-themed roller rink? What fun! Let me just throw on my most obnoxious '70s gear and tease me hair! I'll blend in with everyone else and look fabulous at the same time!" Apparently, "disco" refers solely to the type of music played and not the dress code. All of a sudden my furry coat, patterned pants and gold sequin top became my worst enemy. I turned into a shining beacon of light, slowly orbiting the gym in such a pronounced way that when people started lapping me (which they did. over and over again) they knew. They were well aware. No blending in for this gal! Every time Michael or Grant whizzed past me, I'd get a tender, encouraging touch on my upper back and a supportive wink. Sometimes these intimate gestures came from other people. I think that's part of the skating culture(???).

By some great act of God, I never fell. I must say, however, that when you're going at a snail's pace, it enables you to really take in the endearing details of Crazy Legs Roller Club. For example, the way star crossed-lovers skate arm-in-arm, backwards, with their eyes closed while you claw along the wall like a leper from Jesus Christ Super Star (honestly, that's the only comparison I could think of at the time). And while people skate laps around the dimly lit gymnasium, center court is reserved for the break-dancers. Yes, break-dancing in roller blades is a thing, and these guys are good. The majority of them are middle-aged men and I found it fascinating that this is obviously their Wednesday night, every Wednesday night. One man took pity on us as we encircled the seasoned pros and gawked at their talents. He tried to teach us some moves, and Michael was dedicated enough to actually get on the ground and bust a few. Grant, being a naturally elegant swan, didn't need any lessons and floated away.

Michael attempted to convince the DJ to play Beyoncé's Blow, because, duh, but the DJ stuck with B-list disco songs (except for when he played Lorde's Royals...?). But once our back sweat had thoroughly soaked through our paisley button downs and fur, we decided it was time to turn in. And like the true Brooklyn-dwelling, disco-skating bohemians that we are, we Uber-ed back to our warm beds and called it a night. While I can assure you that Michael and Grant will be back for more, I will probably opt out for a new, slightly less death-defying adventure. Canoeing down the toxic Gowanus canal, anyone?

getting our blades on.

Photo cred: Michael Offerman. See, I wasn't kidding about the shining beacon of light. Or the being in pain thing.

xx

The Secret Correlation Between Plants and Adulthood

I've said it before and I'll say it again. I love my apartment more than anything. The Williamsburg location, the four story walk up (jokes) and my wonderfully talented roommate. But lately I've been feeling as though I'm missing some key element that will take my apartment from pleasant to sophisticated, and yesterday I realized the answer: plants. 

Now that I've landed a J-O-B (!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!), having living things in your apartment feels like a natural transition into the next stage of proving that you are a responsible adult capable of taking care of others. Plants will eventually be replaced by an animal of sorts (chinchilla? sugar glider? a cheetoh?) and then, finally, fingerscrossedIgetmarried, small humans. But for now house plants will have to do. 

We must take baby steps when entering new phases of life, however, and I'm not sure I'm quite ready for the challenge of watering plants per se, so I've contently settled on some adorable succulents (read: can survive in the desert). Ariella bought me the most beautiful terrarium for Christmas from a local store called Sprout, so I took a trip down to Grand Street (they also have a Chicago location!) because yesterday was perfect plant-buying weather. I would highly recommend Sprout's extensive selection of make-your-own terrarium ingredients (plastic dinosaurs included), floral arrangements and abundance of moss. I settled on three little fleshy Echeverias (only $3.50 each! BUY ALL THE ECHEVERIAS!) and re-potted them into some Anthropologie glass jars I had lying about (below).

 I put them on the windowsill next to my bed, and this morning the sunlight was streaming in and I felt very positive about life.  I must say, it was the loveliest sight to wake up to. So do yourself a favor today, and go buys some succulents. xx

BYOB(runch)

This post is about brunch. "Brunching" is a thing I did not do enough in college (the amount of mornings I wasn't eating at Half and Half or Winslow's is my biggest regret in life) and I still don't do enough of today. The concept of sleeping in on a lazy Sunday and then rolling up with friends to New York's hottest restaurant to discuss the previous night's cacophony over mimosas and pancakes for hours sounds like all I've ever wanted in life. But when it comes down to it, it takes quite a bit of organization and, more importantly, MONEY. Adding brunch to your list of hobbies and activities can set you back a significant amount each week. So it's something I'm going to aspire to.

 In conclusion, I am job-searching so that I can brunch.

As a solution, I found a temporary substitute: The BYOB.

My good friends Jacob and Sarah were visiting NYC last weekend and obviously wanted to max out their socializing, but trying to meet up with 10 people for brunch in Williamsburg is like trying to get a reservation at the Dorsia in American Psycho. So Ariella and I had the genius decision to host the brunch at our apartment! However, we decide this the night before and didn't have enough time to shop for a full-out brunch. So to make it as easy as possible, we ended up doing a Bring Your Own Brunch. Instead of worrying about cooking for everyone or even bringing a dish large enough for everyone, you just worry about yourself! This is especially convenient when you have gluten-free (and fabulous) or vegetarian friends. Our BYOB still ended up being a little pot-luckish though because I have generous friends who are willing to pick up a dozen donuts and bagels and (my favorite, thanks Hillary!) macarons. It was a lovely get together and I would fully recommend the concept when you're feeling lazy or poor or selfish and don't want to share your food.

I promise Jacob and Steven are having more fun then they're letting on. 

Gold Heads

As many of you know, I went to Wash U to pursue a sculpture major. I ended up switching to fashion because sculpture is something that, no matter what, I'll always be doing regardless of my job. Fashion, however, was something new to learn and would open many more doors than sculpture would. Since moving to New York, I've been searching for the right career path in fashion, but sculpture is something I've consistently kept up with. I rented some studio space in Brooklyn in a beautiful facility with a wonderful community, and I've been spending a lot of my free-time there. I've working on sculptures that are a smaller version of what I did in high school/college  because I just don't have the storage for any more 5 foot sculptures! The process of making these guys is a rather long-winded one, as I have to sculpt them, wait for them to dry, bisque fire them, apply the white glaze, fire them again, then wait until I have enough of them to fill the small kiln (which I have to rent out) to high-fire for the gold lacquer. So all in all it's taken several months to complete all of these.  

Being in studio is my happy place as I just sculpt while going back and forth between listening to NPR to catch up on world news and serious deep-thinking time. The only problem now is forcing myself out into the polar vortex to get there. I'm also trying to decide/figure out the whole "making money" thing as a sculptor- so let me know if you have any ideas! (There are a few more pictures over at my website)

 

Gift Guide Part V: For Your Boyfriend Who Home Brews IPA, Participates in Movember Year-Round And Makes A Living By Selling High Quality Firewood

1. Redbeard Brew Bars Hard Cider Soup $25 A delicious mix of cinnamon, cloves and nutmeg that you can steal in the shower.
2. Hickoree's Almond Stripes Bow Tie $85 For when he feels like channeling his inner Zoe Deschanel and being *quirky*.
3. Urban Outfitters Lana Del Rey "Paradise" LP $14 So you can listen to Lana together and cry beautiful tears and try and convince him once again to get a motorcycle so that the two of you can Ride.
4. Santa Maria Novella Tobacco Toscano Cologne $135 Notes of Vanilla and Amber. But, like, in a manly way.
5. Son of a Sailor Echo Flash Drive $34 To up his tech style.
6. Aesop Sonority Gift Kit $110 More man-grooming gifts because they won't buy it for themselves.
7. Invisiplug Wood Grain Power Strips $16 The only kind of power strips he'll use. Ugh, so difficult.
8. Amazon "The Curious Bartender: The Artistry and Alchemy of Creating the Perfect Cocktail" by Tristan Stephenson. No need to hit up the bars when he can make you whatever you want at home!
9. Peachy Apricot Ron Swanson Keychain $8 Because a man needs an image of his idol nearby at all times.
10. Izola Ford Balsam Pillow $32 Words to live by.
11. Etsy Jon Snow iPhone Case $10 One can never have enough Jon Snow. Or Game of Thrones. But mostly just Jon Snow.
12. Best Made Audubon Field Guide Series $60 To help him navigate the great outdoors.
13. Oh Dawn Skateboard $100 The most efficient way to get to work.
14. Blackbird Tees Tea Towel Set $35 So that there's no confusion about housework being a team effort.
15. A cozy for his mason jar coffee mug which I will have knitted myself so sorry not for sale.
16. The Cutlery Commission Silver Plated Spoon $16 To inflate his ego even more.
17. Hermès Playing Cards $98 Can't get more bourgeois than this.

How To: Glitter Antlers

The perks (and downfalls) of living in Williamsburg: I am two blocks away from Saturdays' Smorgasburg  and Sunday's Brooklyn Flea. This means ramen burgers (yes, that's a thing) at my fingertips, and overpriced mason jars that I never knew I needed but, in fact, were the only things missing from my life. 

While I had been exemplifying excellent self-restraint last Sunday, I happened upon a collection of antlers that made me weak in the knees. Now, everything looks good with gold glitter on it. But dead animal body parts? Those take the cake. 

So I purchased my friend, here, for $20 (read: almost a month's worth of Green Peace "donations"). The older man who collected these pieces kindly informed me that the antlers' name was Buck. I said thank you and slowly backed away. What does that even mean?? Are these the remains of a childhood pet deer whose time had come? Or did he shoot the wild animal and then name it? The jury is still out. And will probably never come back.

Seeing as some of the few belongings I brought with me when I first came to NYC included two industrial-sized jars of gold glitter, I had plenty to experiment with. I'm also at a point in my life where, if glitter gets all over every surface in my room (and it will), I embrace it. That's an important part of DIY-ing, by the way: having a good space to DIY in. It was a delightful Sunday evening in my own special DIY space; candles were lit, Sam Cooke was on the turntable, and Buck was in my arms. 

***

This is a pretty complicated one, so please read the instructions carefully.

(P.S. How much more legit do DIY photos look when you Google "hipster fonts" and write things on them?? Score!)