Hippie Hippie Shake

My hippie pedigree is pretty solid. My mother never went to the extreme of running off to a commune. She was, as she will freely admit, a flower child of the "love" variety, if you know what I mean. Her environmental and political awakening came later, as her daughter was growing older. Yet, very few children can have been named after a chick with the nonconformist moniker of "Alley Cat."
I had a fairly free-and-easy boho dream of a childhood--the kind that, in nostalgic moments, I would love to craft for my own (quite imaginary) kidlets. A lot of things were more organic those days (without attempting to be so) and childhood was one of them. The cool, barefoot hippie-aesthetic that informed so many of my younger days is usually not readily apparent in my grown-girl attire.
How we opt to dress ourselves is a lot more complex than mere convenience and colour-preference would suggest. Factors that we are not even aware of on the surface play into the image that we present to the world. Fashion, history and sociology are three of my favourite things. These pastimes, coupled with a love of pretty or interesting pieces, means that I have a ridiculous amount of influences to draw from. The result is that the hippie aesthetic is usually lost in the mix. There are simply eras that hold stronger visual appeal to me: the 1920'S, 1940'S, a bit of the 1950'S, silver screen looks of the 1930'S, a smidgen of late-Victorian and Edwardian.
There is, however, a time in my life--and wardrobe--for everything. As the seasonal cycle spins into summer, I become antsy to let loose my inner folk-freak. This is a yearly occurrence: as soon as the weather turns warm, truly warm, I want to break out the flow-y paisley fabric and put a daisy or two in my hair. 9 months out of the calendar, I prefer to look like a classic pinup or a sexy flapper or a crazy combination of the two. I am definitely more Clara Bow than Janis Joplin. During normal times,I would never be pegged , by a stranger, for a tree-hugging patchouli-lover.
With the above-mentioned complexity perpetually in full-fruit, my hippie-punk ideals are seldom written across my physicality: but they are there just the same. They exist where they count, not in the ultimately superficial manifestations of clothing or shoe or hair choice. Yet, the sultry Ohio summer is all the excuse that I need to temporarily let my hair down,get my feet dirty, and deliberately mismatch my free-and-easy clothes. My looks are ever-evolving.By October, pencil skirts and stilettos will likely come calling, singing their sexy siren's song, as I move into the next stage of my endless fashion-game. Each season presents a different dynamic, and new chances to play dress-up. By this time next year, I will again be prepared to visually claim my hippie-inheritance.