Grace & Style Read online

  White Chucks: White, low-top Converse Chuck Taylor All-Star sneakers ($50). These seem to be a staple in a lot of closets. They weren’t always a staple in mine, not this exact shoe, but I’ve always had some sort of casual-sneaker option in my top shoe rotation. They’re easy. They’re cute. They suggest you’re more unconcerned and blasé than you actually are. I read in Alexa Chung’s book It (which I really enjoyed) that every time she got a new pair of Chucks she’d rub them in the dirt so they didn’t look so nerdy and new. And now that’s what I do. There’s something about a well-worn pair of sneakers without a dank foot stink that makes a person appear traveled and trendy without trying. “Effortlessness” seems to be a thing we strive for; I know I do. But there are fine lines between effortless and straight-up sloppy, and effortless and overworked. A great pair of understated sneakers helps me find middle ground. Also, I really like pairing shoes like this with dresses and skirts and slightly fancier items. It’s like sea salt on chocolate. People lose their damn minds because it’s unexpected, but somehow it works.

  Ballet Flats: Nude, leather ballet flats from Topshop ($25). These are my ride-or-dies. These shoes have seen some sh*t in their day. Well, their elders have. I end up buying a new pair of this exact shoe every six months or so due to wear and tear and stains and stinks. These are my everyday go-tos when zipping or lacing something is just too much stress. What a life! They’re comfortable, they’re stylish and subtle and made really well for the price. A lot of shoes call themselves ballet flats but they have the smallest of wedges just under the heel—I’m talking centimeters. And I’m not normally a stickler for the details, but that bothers me. It’s like someone with one rogue nose hair. You just wanna get it out of there! (Just me? C’est la vie.) But these guys, these are ballet FLaTs. They live up to their name. They’re also extremely universal. You can wear them to a wide spectrum of events with a wide spectrum of clothing. They’re like that friend who makes the perfect plus one; they can blend into any environment and get along with anyone. They’re always there for you. Even when you abandon them to gallivant around with heels that YOu BOTH KnOw are out of your league. And when you inevitably come back to them, they won’t even judge you. God, they’re so good. Note to self: get your nude ballet flats an Edible Arrangement—they do a lot for you.

  Almost-Could-Be-Heels: Black, studded flats with ankle straps from Zara ($50). These are what I use to trick people into thinking I’m wearing heels. I bought these on a “whim” in NYC a few months ago when I was getting ready for an event and had one of those moments where I classically thought I didn’t pack any shoes I like! (aka I wanted any reason to go to the Zara around the corner from the hotel I was staying at). When I walked in, I saw these, thought they might be a little much, got them anyway, and when I wore them to the event, I got a surprising number of compliments. (Any compliment to me is a surprise, for myself and the person giving it—for them it’s a surprise since I’m incredibly awful at taking compliments. “I like your shoes, Grace.” “HOw Dare YOu!”) I’ve worn them to a few other events, too, and again, received some really nice compliments. So unless it’s some extremely mild prank people are playing on me, I like these shoes.

  “You can never take too much care over the choice of your shoes. Too many women think that they are unimportant, but the real proof of an elegant woman is what is on her feet.”

  —CHRISTIAN DIOR

  “The real proof of an elegant woman is her ability not to drunk-tweet.”

  —GRACE HELBIG

  I think people like these shoes because they’re more interesting than your average plain flat, but they’re still somehow simple. I’ve worn them with a range of casual and fancy attire. And they’re comfortable. Really comfortable. I usually don’t like ankle straps because they make my feet feel like they’re being strangled by tiny murderers, but these are great. They keep me from having one of those “shoe-pop-off” moments that happen with a lot of flats and sandals that make me feel like an out-of-control idiot. Not these. Another small detail is that they have gold and silver studs, so you can mix and match your jewelry and the hardware on your clothing. For whatever reason, I feel tacky if the zipper or other noticeable metal on my clothing doesn’t match the noticeable metal on my shoes. Look at me caring about fashion!

  Silver Sling-Backs: Silver kitten heel sling-backs from French Connection ($80 on sale). Technically, these are called the French Connection Kourtney Pump. I always find it silly when shoes are named after humans. I like shoes labeled exactly how they look. I don’t want to order the “Henry Appetizer” at an Outback Steakhouse, I want a Bloomin’ Onion. Anyway, these are the closest I get to a favorite in the heel department. These buddies have a two-and-a-half-inch heel, which seem even shorter IRL, like a male actor. The silver color is my version of a “pop of color.” They’re modern and youthful, but the silver still goes with a lot (as long as the metals match!). I used to reserve the term “sling-back” for cocktails, but turns out, it’s great for shoes, too. The sling-back strap makes my foot feel more secure in the shoe, like a seat belt on a roller coaster. Because, like a roller coaster, me in heels is a beautiful disaster of unpredictable ups and downs. I’ve worn these to a couple red-carpet events and they’ve been great. In my fantasy brain I see myself wearing these with jeans and a button-down for businesslike meetings, but Reality Grace would probably choose the nude flats or Converse sneakers over them at the last minute. Any farts, these are my go-to heels when I get society-standards-peer-pressured into wearing heels for things.

  an open letter to heels

  Dear Heels,

  I had to put this on paper, because every time I try to say it to your face, you hypnotize me with your good looks and delicate ways and somehow convince me you’ve changed.

  But we both know that isn’t true. What I’m trying to say, Heels, is that I don’t think we’re a good fit. I know this is uncomfortable. But so are we.

  At times you lift me up, you make me feel strong and confident. All the ladies love you. Even some men. You want to make me a better person. You want to make my outfit look better on my person. You support my butt when the French fries don’t. You help me lie about having a sense of style. You’ve upped my foot-stomping game when it comes to defending myself against potential predators. You never judge me when I make you role-play that I’m a successful lawyer in the final act of a movie power-walking into a courtroom to defend a case that no one thinks I can win. You make my calves seem like real body parts. You stay constant when my other clothes don’t. And for all of that, I thank you.

  But at the same time . . .

  “I can’t concentrate in flats!”

  —VICTORIA BECKHAM

  “I can dominate in flats.”

  —GRACE HELBIG

  You bring me down at unexpected moments. You cause me emotional pain. You cause my ankles physical pain. You give me delusions of grandeur. You pretend to support me but puss out after twenty minutes. You can’t handle your booze. You can’t handle my booze. You’re a financial burden. You’ve bullied my big toenails into running away more than once. You take up too much room when we travel. You constantly try to sabotage the things I like: sports and the beach and grass and boats and bounce castles and jumping on the bed and playing with my dog and water beds and standing and walking and driving and making guacamole.

  So, Heels, I don’t know where we stand. Sometimes I can’t stand you and sometimes I can’t stand in you. You have outstanding qualities, but your impulsiveness makes me standoffish. We’re at a standstill. I hope you understand. If you want to reach out, I’ll be on standby, standing by the nightstand doing some headstands. Standard.

  Staying grounded,

  Grace

  vintage grace

  RED-CARPET RIDICULOUSNESS

  When I was younger, along with watching runway shows,

  I watched all the award shows and all the Joan Rivers red-carpet coverage I could. I read all the pop culture magazines and bl
ogs about the best dressed, the worst dressed, and everything in between. It all looked so glamorous and so desirable, all I wanted to do when I grew up, along with creating a successful and fulfilling career for myself, was to be invited to red-carpet events. The photos! The exaggerated costume clothing! The hobbing and the nobbing! It all seemed so exciting!

  And now, as an actual adult (on paper), I’ve had the opportunity to attend a small handful of red-carpet events and see what they’re really like. The screaming! The sweating! The looks from people wondering if you’re important and the walking away when they realize you’re not! It’s not that exciting!

  Let me take you through my experience of—get ready—going to and getting out of a red-carpet event.

  Leading up to a red-carpet event is a fun mix of anticipation and anxiety. You have to plan what you’re wearing, how you’re doing your hair and makeup, how you’re getting to and from the event, and the time management of it all. Sometimes I get help from my stylist friend in picking out what I’m going to wear and sometimes I get something on my own because I have control issues LOL. Though whenever I pick out something on my own, there’s usually a last-minute panic about whether or not it’s too see-through, if I have the right type of underwear for it, if I got deodorant smears all over it, do I even have shoes? Etc., etc., etc. My brain is like a static hamster wheel with a bunch of thoughts piled up on it. All of a sudden it goes from zero to sixty in three seconds and all the thoughts fly off in different directions and nothing gets figured out. When my friend styles me, she considers all the things I never do, so I’m way more prepared in her hands.

  Getting ready on the day of the event is probably the most fun part of the experience for me. I have a couple good friends who usually do my hair and makeup at my house beforehand, which keeps me in my comfort zone because they know I rarely shower or sleep, so they make sure to bring aLL the dry shampoos and aLL the undereye creams and they don’t judge my excessive caffeine and Internet intake. Occasionally attendance is organized by a third party and they might end up using their own glam squad to make me seem clean. And that’s great, too; I just spend more time repressing my feelings and less time checking my Tumblr tags. It usually turns out okay.

  When I get ready with friends, it involves a lot of face masks, conversations about whether one of them might have accidentally gone out with a German serial killer the night before, chips and dips, and a vodka shot for the road. I don’t consider myself uptight about my hair and makeup. I always assume people who do hair and makeup for a living understand it much better than I do, so I trust whatever they do to my potato face and mop head. Most times I go for some sort of smokey eye and loose curls. A predictable classic.

  After the hair and makeup are done, there’s a period of time that I call the putz panic. It’s the time when I need to be getting dressed because the car to take me to the event is downstairs but I forgot to shave my legs or put on a fake tan or buy panty liners to put in the armpits of my dress to keep my sweat from leaking through in the ninety-nine-degree heat. The putz panic is a Benny Hill routine of me fumbling around my house desperately trying to cover all my beauty bases. Recently during a putz panic before an event in NYC, I tried to paint my nails at the last minute and after I did I realized I hadn’t put my bra on. I ended up going to the event braless after smearing reddish-orange nail polish all over my back. But I forgot that my outfit had a cutout in the back and at the event’s after-party my friend said she noticed my orange bra when I was onstage and she loved that I matched it to my orange shoes. I told her it wasn’t a bra, it was nail polish, and we both agreed that that accident could have been a hell of a lot worse.

  After the putz panic, after I’ve frantically grabbed any clutchlike purse I can find, after I’ve smeared whatever tanning liquids are in sight on my person, after I’ve been sprayed and buffed and teased and sprayed again and varnished and sandblasted and sprayed a final time, I dump some alcohol into my mouth and make a run for the car. It’s more like an awkward, flustered stumble to the car. I apologize to the driver for being a frazzled fraggle and we’re off. It’s at that point that I have half a second to figure out what event I’m actually going to, if I’ll know anyone there, and what the exit strategy will be. I hate hate hate hate not knowing how to leave a function. I hate feeling “stuck” when I’m mentally and physically ready to exit a scenario. Control issues LOL. In the car I check social media to see who’s at or on their way to the event, whether or not I’m wildly underdressed, and to see if there are any signs of food. Food is hard to come by at red-carpet functions. If you can find it and eat it, you’re a champion. I do all this research while trying to lie as flat and stiff as a board so I don’t get crotch wrinkles in the waist of my outfit before possibly getting pictures taken. The last thing I need is someone thinking I sat down in the car before I got there. How tacky!

  The arrival at an event typically goes two ways: smooth and easy or complicated and kind of embarrassing. There are normally a butt-load of black cars and SUVs all vying for an opening to drop off their human cargo at the top of the carpet. Then there are the volunteers and employees of the event wearing lanyards or headphones or both. They’re usually very stressed out but try to conceal their stress under aggressive professionalism. They’re there to greet the guests and guide them through the red-carpet experience. There’s a lot of chaos that happens between them and the agents, managers, and publicists to make sure guests get the appropriate treatment. It’s hilarious. There’s a lot of yelling and pushing and grabbing and whispering and smiling and air-kissing and overly excited hugging and laughing when people run into people they know. And everyone somehow knows everyone at these things. Or they pretend they do. It’s a big Charlotte’s Web of social climbing. Plus there are usually fans or people who have gathered to see the guests arriving and walking down the carpet. So there are basically three layers of peoplewatching at all times. Everything is being seen by someone, and it’s usually someone with a camera. I never understood how so many female celebrities could get their cootchies caught by a camera while getting out of a car until I finally experienced a red-carpet event firsthand. As soon as you’re out of your car, you’re sucked into a clusterf*ck that you have no control over. IT’S THe PerFecT enVIrOnmenT FOr me.

  The top of the carpet is the peak of insanity. At least in my experience. Jennifer Lawrence, I’m sure, has a completely different experience at red-carpet events than I do, so she might not agree with any of this. Which would seriously bum me out because I wouldn’t want her to feel like she can’t relate to me, making our future friendship even more difficult to realize than it already is.

  The beginning of the carpet is where all of the photographers live. And by live I mean scream at strangers. They stand on bleachers, stacked on each other. It’s mostly guys who look like a bunch of dads at a barbecue, with the exception of some ladies sprinkled throughout. Without the cameras, they look like they could be a Wells Fargo co-ed softball league. But here they wield a variety of giant lenses with bright flashbulbs and little to no patience with each other or anyone else around them. But hey, that’s their job. And because everyone wants their time in the spotlight (literally), there’s usually a clog in the pipes at this point. The guests and their wranglers are all shuffling and struggling to get themselves in front of the cameras. If you’re paired with a talent escort, most times they have either a sign with your name on it to show the photographers before you step out or they shout your name so they can: (1) correctly label their photos, and (2) decide if they even want to take your picture. Yes. That’s a thing. That second reason is a hilariously awkward lesson I’ve learned about these events. The photographers are there to take pictures of the bigwigs—everyone is just a bunch of Michelle Williamses to them until the Jennifer Lawrences and Beyoncés show up. So they can choose whether or not they want to waste their camera memory on a photo of your face. It’s funny and mortifying.

  Though I’ve noticed that if you h
ave an escort showing them your name before you enter the carpet, they lean toward wanting to take your photo since you’re obviously important enough for someone to print your name out on a piece of paper.

  Here’s how it goes down (again, this is only in my experience). You step out onto the carpet and pose (it’s like real-life YouTube; you literally post yourself in front of this audience) and the gaggle of dads either pick up their cameras to shoot you, or they pretend to check their cell phones until you leave. wHIcH Is eXTremeLY HumILIaTInG. It’s like that date auction episode on Saved by the Bell when that generic background geek (not Screech) goes up on the auction block first and no one bids until Mr. Belding finally throws in fifteen cents to keep things moving. On the red carpet you’re the generic background geek on the auction block and eventually the photographers might throw you fifteen cents, or a couple snaps, to keep things moving.

  It’s all so comically degrading. Red carpets and I are like peanut butter and sauerkraut. I’m just not the kind of person to beg for anyone’s attention in that way. The idea of asking people to take my picture makes me very uncomfortable. I’m not saying it doesn’t work for other people, because it definitely does; it’s just not my strong suit. And yes, I know that seems hypocritical with thousands of videos of my own face currently circulating on the Internet. But at least in that scenario there’s a transaction: I’m offering you a piece of content that I’ve created and believe to have entertainment value in exchange for your attention. I can get behind plugging and promoting in those terms. Now. It took me years to get over the narcissism I associated with self-promotion before I genuinely encouraged people to watch any of my content. But walking the red carpet “promoting” my face, which other people fixed up, in an outfit that other people put on me, still feels strange.