Why I buy fashion magazines (AM)

 Oh, I mean why do I buy fashion magazines?

I don't do it often, and I do think I can see a pattern. Every few months I buy one. Either Vogue or Harper's Bazaar. Not that it's a rule, just looking at my magazines I see that is what I buy. I guess because they are big and glossy and full of fashion and not as trashy as the other shit out there. I think I buy them when a) a change in season makes me want to buy new clothes and rather than do that I buy a magazine for some inspiration or so that I can pretend I bought stuff without having to actually buy anything; or b) I want to do something with my hair and need inspiration. (This is in fact a constant state.)

HA. Great reasons, J. Yeah Vogue is going to give you some excellent hair inspiration. A bunch of models who have had their hair done for hours.  It's the Georg Jensen girls that always appeal to me.

First:

Now:

Sure, a couple of models with a bunch of product and people putting in time and energy and effort into their hair. I can't help feel that I'm never gonna look like that. And that no hair cut is going to look like that on me. Although, according to Carre Otis in the current issue of vogue, although her hair looked "shiny and full" as a young anorexic fucked up model her hair "was very dry and brittle from being teased and blown out...since I wasn't eating enough I'd lose lots of my hair in the brush and in the shower." Hey! Maybe there is hope for me after all!

But it's not just useless hair inspiration you can find in Vogue, of course there are fashion tips too, like this page giving great tips on how to get more leopard print in your life. 

Or this great coat. Only cost six grand. 

So why, why oh why do I buy them? What I tell you is not a surprise to me or you. The fact magazines are full of unattainable hair and faces and bodies and clothes is not new. I know before I hand over my eight bucks that I'm just buying a bunch of BS, and yet I still buy them and enjoy them. What the eff does Condé Nast know about my brain that I don't. Eeeeeeeew Condé Nast, get out of my brain.