Coachella novela

With the first weekend of the highly-anticipated music festival now behind us, and excitement building for round II this coming weekend, it’s the prime topic of discussion everywhere you go.  From street style, to discussion surrounding Tupac’s resurrection, you can’t escape it.

But that’s fine.  I mean for one, I love the photos of outfits, all inspired by that carefree, sun-loving, distinctly California style.  But more so than the crop tops and floppy hats, the thought of Coachella brings me back to 2008 when all of a sudden, a very serious predicament hung over our household.  There was a decision to be made, one for my little sister.  One that no 17-year-old girl should ever have to make:

Coachella.  Or Senior Prom.

I know, I know, what a distressful dilemma.  But, at the end of the day, frolicking around barefoot through the grass and soaking up the desert sun in denim cut-offs was a much more appealing way to dance her little heart out than in the fuss of a ball gown and heels.  So she chopped off all her hair, packed up her rompers and metallic bandeaus, and headed to the desert.  So glad she ended up having the time of her life.  And that she ended up falling in love with her new ‘do.

Love her style.  It has definitely evolved since, but has held true in its degree of effortless-cool.  And ballsy, always.

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