Punk is a lifestyle, not just style. And so, I have to start off by admitting: I am so totally NOT punk. Evidence?
-I work from 9-5 and I’m mostly fine with that
-I get secretly excited to shop at Target
-I enjoy Subway’s Veggie Delite, least punk of all sandwiches
-I’m horrified at the thought of anarchy (I’m more of an enthusiastic big-government bleeding-heart Socialist)
I’m not even someone who dresses punk, most of the time. Punk is a deconstruction: ragged seams, exposed safety pins, revealing the things that are usually hidden. I’m a fairly lady-like dresser in general, in spite of being a feminazi with a foul mouth and hair-trigger temper. If I’m not wearing at least one floral print or bright lipstick, I feel naked.
And yet, here I come, about to use this week’s column to dabble in punk. I’m a style dilettante, skimming the surface of something much bigger than mohawks and ripped jeans. I enjoy dying my hair dark blue and wearing blackish-purple lipstick, but that doesn’t make me punk, any more than wearing a fringed shawl would make me a fortune-teller.