Sweater, Banana Republic. Skirt, Club Monaco. Beret, mall vendor. Necklace, thrifted. Tights, Hue. Flats, Geox.
As a tween, I tooted my own erudite horn by claiming The Red and the Black was my favorite book (which only made me look cool in the eyes of snobbish adults, aka my mother's teacher friends). By fifteen, I had graduated to Madame Bovary and in college, I dabbled in Nausea (which I realize sounds like a euphemism for bulimia). I'd like to think this Francophile trend is completely unrelated to my beret collection, but only because I refuse to believe anything is as obvious as it seems. You know? Now if you'll excuse me, I simply must get back to reminiscing about falling asleep as a child.
The joy of beret-wearing, evidently.