These pants have magic powers and no, not the kind that bring America Ferrera and Blake Lively together after a long, difficult summer. No, these pants are the positive self-esteem heroes of our generation, in other words, not Blake Lively. They bring love handles and muffins tops together after long, over-indulgent summers and house them in one beautiful, corded flare pant – happy tears.
My college experience saw me gain the revered Freshmen 15lbs in six months after an onslaught of non-Mexican Mexican food and $1 screwdrivers and in the aftermath, these pants were my only salvation.
Let this be a lesson for you all, in times of need you must always, always turn to Gucci and teen movies highlighting the importance of female friendship and/or sisterhood.
Wearing: Gucci pants, Acne Studios tee and Balenciaga heels.
I’m a tee-shirt junkie. Shockingly I don’t wear thigh-high boots and leather all the time – what a damn rip-off! Much of the time I’m sat in front of the telly, scoffing stale gluten products with pyjama pants made for 5 foot 3’ midgets. So when I can bring both of my worlds together, my cankle-bearing, ¾ pyjama pant wearing self and my fashion-loving alter-ego, it’s a beautiful and bloody rare occasion.
This Balenciaga bad boy ticks all of the boxes, including the biscuit box where my glutinous products are housed. Comfortable enough to appease my inner sloth, yet edgy and totally versatile enough for the aesthetic gremlin that occupies half of my brain.
Yay for Balenciaga, yay for 5 foot 3’ midgets and yay for gluten products.
WEARING: Balanciaga tee found here, Jbrand jeans similar found here, Chanel runway suede heels pearl pumps.
PHOTOS: Anastasia Borrelli
My mum has a dangerous addiction. With every cleaning product infomercial our Samsung wide-inch spews out, she grabs her Amex, drops a dollar or two on shipping and handling and anxiously waits by the letterbox for the “Shamwow” to come and revolutionise her cleaning habits.
The cupboard under the kitchen sink has become a depressing gravesite for cleaning products long forgotten, replaced by the next gizmo of cleaning wizardry. She’s tried stopping, rehabbing her infomercial compulsion, but has always relapsed into old ways, that is, until recently.
After an afternoon binge of “My 600 Pound Life: Where Are They Now?” episodes, Mother dearest stumbled across an ad for some miraculous sponge/mop/vacuum hybrid that promises to clean your house, dog and life forever. As anticipated she dropped some nickels and then some more (f*cking shipping and handling) and sat by the front door eagerly. Said hybrid has since arrived and has Mum, bless her poly-tri blend socks, cleaning happily from dawn to dusk. She says she’ll never look back, hasn’t touched an infomercial since – it’s a Christmas miracle.
Like mother, like daughter. I too, have a dangerous addiction – an uncontrollable pink faux fur compulsion. As you may have previously noted, my wardrobe features a shameful five pink furs. After an emotionally trying incident of attempting to fit a bunch of new purchases into the Ikea flat-pack closet full of my pink faux fur friends, I realised my problem. Following in my Mother’s footsteps I decided to shop around for a one-stop shop fur that will put a stop once and for all to my dependence. Ladies and jellybeans, here it is…
Wearing: JCrew pink Faux fur coat similar found here, Winston Wolfe leather pant similar found here & vegan option found here, Chanel Boy Bag similar found here and here, Balenciaga boots found here.
Photography: Anastasia Borrelli
I recently turned 21, a milestone that was celebrated with a cake or two, a beer or four and my first experience with an early-life crisis. My bucket list for ‘life before adulthood’ was far from checked off with my skin remaining untouched by the tip of a tattoo gun, no repertoire of holiday romances with hunky Bolivian men and no amateur blogging experience to put on my resume (baloney). After hours upon minutes of contemplation and review, a cruel realisation had washed over me. I was not ready to be an adult. According to folk law, or more accurately the gift card section at Woolworths, by age 21 you are supposed to own a house. What. The. Hell.
As my day of birth arrived, I sat myself down with a large chunk of birthday cake and a big ol’ cup of get the hell over it. I mean, surely there are some worthwhile perks to adulthood? Staying up late, eating what you want, not having to shower daily etc. Sounded pretty bloody good to me and as quickly as it had come, my early-life crisis was gone, replaced with renewed birthday cheer.
Wanting a wardrobe to reflect my new, matured outlook on life, I fed into my daily online shopping habit and stumbled across another benefit of adulthood – the pencil skirt, reserved for ages 21 and above. My coming of age was well and truly defined by my first post birthday purchase, this dazzling Dion Lee skirt. Below the knee and navy, both signs of evolution and utter maturity. Thus, beginning the systematic purging off all my old habits and previously juvenile rational. I’m basically as adult as it comes now, I’m just avoiding the card section at Woollies.
Wearing: Dion Lee ruffle skirt, Ellery top, Zana Bayne choker, Balenciaga heels.
Photos: Anastasia Borrelli
They say that every naïve, young girl dreams about their ideal wedding day years in advance, finding ecstasy in deciphering every tedious detail of their big day but not me I’m afraid. Thanks to my dearest Mother, I have begrudgingly sat through more episodes of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding than is good for the soul and seen what these ‘glamorous’ nuptials can do to a person. Despite the obvious trauma I have experienced from this British budget production, the root of my issue lies elsewhere. Cheap, nasty corsetry is the real reason behind my shying away from all thing weddings. It’s a societal problem that has plagued us for years. As my Instagram bio suggests I am a philanthropist, activist and wanker so I felt it only necessary to bring awareness to this saddening issue – CHEAP CORSETRY SUCKS, but before this begins to sound too much like my own, personal manifesto of hatreds I want to point out the exception.
This bad boy Kitx dress is the ONLY example of corsetry I will allow in the Haus of Rachel. The palpable superiority and structure of this frock gives my black flab a lovely lil’ squeeze here and a nice hold there – thank goodness for that. Kit Willow is a bloody legend, kind of like all those wedded gypsies, except, well not.
Wearing: Kitx dress, Balenciaga Blade Boots
Photos: Anastasia Borrelli
Trendsetters. Those scarce, few individuals who manage to maintain total originality in their style, while nonchalantly setting the standards of aesthetic excellence. Kind of like a rare Pokémon, these elusive entities are fluttering through the pages of Scott Schuman publications, street style blogs and eventually dictate the clothes and styles you might see a few years down the track in many of our generic clothing stores. With known and close genetic links to unicorns, trendsetters are nocturnal creatures whose diets mainly consist of lettuce, hairspray and second-hand bum bags. Highly sought after on the black market, trend setters can fetch anywhere between twenty and fifty thousand dollars.
For me, the average Joe, the unattainability of such sartorial superiority can be a real issue and something to consider writing to your local politician about. Despite these raw difficulties, replication of the qualities and mannerisms of these trendsetters is simply done and at times, a necessity. Today is that day. Hello bandana. Hello bandwagon. Hello me. Despite my total tardiness in arriving to the bandana party, I simply cannot imagine life any other way. In a time where scarves, neck ties and Malcolm Turnbull are ruling the land, it is imperative to be seen alongside and united with the trendsetters, defiant in the virtuous values of the old fashioned bandana. All hail the bandana.
Wearing: Asos bandana, Atmosandhere top – The Iconic exclusive, Asos pants, Balenciaga heels, Chanel Boy Bag
Christmas – a time filled mostly with the exchanging of very solicitous but often subpar gifts, more Secret Santa’s than you can poke a stick at and more than a few visits to the gingerbread tin. Although we are taught otherwise, the pinnacle of the festive season really is delving into the mountainous pile of poorly wrapped presents with enough gusto to put your young self to shame and watching the reactions of your ‘loved’ ones when they receive our gifts (gross right?). Now, before this starts sounding too much like an #ad #sponsored for the utter, unwavering joy and cheer that is Xmas, I feel the need to open up the conversation to the other, less transparent side to Christmas, the dark side of the festivities. The point in the merriments where cold meat sambo’s resemble a broken record, you’ve listened to ‘Suzy Snowflake’ one too many times and the woman you call ‘mum’, like, totally missed the mark with her present (criminal). Disappointment, sadness and a total lack of justification for feeling these emotions take hold. For those of us looking to avoid throwing yourself and your mediocre gifts into the crockpot of Christmas crap, there is a solution.
The time tested method of child picking, parent buying. The old ‘I’ve bought my own present’ routine, something I’ve adopted this year to ensure my dream present was hand delivered into my greedy, undeserving hands. This bangin’ McCall lace top happens to be this year’s target, the perfect, hand selected, parent paid for present. Beautiful enough to help you maintain your expectant, spoiled brat status all while looking polished and fab. Signing off early, due to the exertion of writing about the difficulties of being a privileged, happy person. Merry Christmas bastards.
Wearing: Alice McCall top, Winston Wolfe skirt, B-low the Belt belt, Balenciaga heels, Acne Studios clutch
Photographs: Anastasia Borrelli
One of life’s greatest challenges is travelling well. I am #blessed enough to have had a few trips in my time but to this day, I am yet to conquer the ‘not-too-smelly-of-a-tourist’ look. When you are fresh off a twelve hour, sardine-packed, slightly farty flight and the goddess in row two, seat B is wearing the leather jacket you wish you had and the jeans you thought were too uncomfortable for flying in, you can’t help but sob a lil’ on the inside. Suddenly your Nike’s and loose tee have left you feeling more Camilla than Diana. The deep feelings of inadequacy creep on up and you are now convincing yourself that row two, seat B has a serious case of crap personality-itis and an excess of body hair under her perfectly ironed, put-together ensemble. Deep down though, you know it aint’ so. With all of our deeply embedded vain and narcissistic qualities, is it too much to ask for to look at least ‘decent’ while travelling?
Enter, Josh Goot bomber. Again from the archives, this beauty has everything you need to pep yourself up for the jeopardies of travelling. The striking orchid pattern is enough to disguise a cheeky food stain or four, is as comfortable as mum jeans and has you looking like a total rock star ready for a guitar hero battle. It is also perfectly complements every modern woman’s travel uniform of black jeans and sneakers, hitting all the right comfort and style notes. If this aint’ love, I really don’t know what is.
Wearing: Josh Goot ‘orchid’ bomber, Winston Wolfe leather skirt, Asos ribbed turtleneck crop, Proenza Schouler PS11 bag and Balenciaga boots
Photos: Anastasia Borrelli
This glorious Josh Goot corset with all of its boning and feminine structure has me feeling very hot and flustered. It’s difficult to weld together ‘easy & wearable’ to ‘fancy & smancey’ but this number has very much managed to do so. Believe it or not, this baby aint’ all that bad to wear, comfortable and covered, there is no stressing about falling out or slips. With a waist-cinching peplum silhouette, this garment has taught my simple mind that a corset can be much more than a medieval instrument of torture or a budget bride’s goldmine. You can actually, dare I say it, wear this with jeans and flats and not look like a wealthy socialite with too much money. Yes, I know you are all waiting for my far too regular metaphor so here goes nothing; I feel like a less athletic, far less badass but way better dressed Charlies Angel (Dylan #1).
If you are in fact alive and vaguely interested in fashion, chances are you would have stumbled across a Josh Goot corset. Buy it asap. Lastly, my subconscious and heart cannot let me finish this post without mentioning that Natalie & Alex was also gnarly, I am just so conflicted.
Wearing: Josh Goot ‘Flowerbomb’ corset, Dior ‘So Real’ sunglasses, Chanel Le Boy bag, Winston Wolfe Jack Rabbit leather pants, Balenciaga Blade boots
Photos: Anastasia Borrelli