Fashion in Alaska: Deliberately Disheveled

When I was in my twenties I had the grungy, but carefully constructed, Fairbanks Cabin-Dwelling look I now call Deliberately Disheveled. I wasn’t unique. Deliberately Disheveled was the school uniform for the UAF graduate student. There were a lot of us. We drank beer. We had dogs. We went to bonfires. We drove ancient Subarus and trucks. In my Deliberately Disheveled period, I cared deeply about my appearance, but worked hard to look like I didn’t care.

In the morning, after much consideration, I’d settle on a fifteen-year-old pair of Calvin Klein’s I found at Value Village for five dollars, and pair them with a baggy paint-splattered t-shirt, tan construction worker boots, vintage metal black glasses, and a bracelet made of beans. I’d then cover the ensemble with a dirty Carhartt Arctic parka and walk out into the ice fog, feeling sexy.

The idea behind Deliberately Disheveled was to give the impression that fashion followed function. Add no running water to artistic poverty and men’s V-Neck undershirts become the foundation of a wardrobe. Ironic second-hand clothing provided accents. The 25 year old “Prudhoe Bay Keeping America Independent” baseball hat or the t-shirt that said “I love Milk, Cow Milk” in Korean were treasures from the thrift store.

There were a few rules. Dirt and paint stains were acceptable. They gave an artistic outdoorsy impression. Food stains were forbidden. I wanted to look as if I was painting all morning and then decided to do a day hike at Angel Rocks, not as if I had just dropped a bucket of fried chicken in my lap.

As crazy as it seems in retrospect, I see that the Deliberately Disheveled period was borne of luxury. I had time to try on thirty pairs of thrift store jeans. Now with two daughters under three years old, I have no time at all. Although my house has a shower, I have no time to take one. I used to think it was cool to look like I just rolled out of bed. Now, I have just rolled out of bed, that is if I’m lucky enough to have gotten any sleep. I’m no longer Deliberately Disheveled. I’m just plain disheveled.

Now the stains on my clothes are a catalog of my day—a tiny oatmeal handprint on my left arm, Play Doh ground into the knees of my jeans, a trail of white spit up down my left shoulder blade.

No longer do I spend hours looking for old jeans or the t-shirt with just the right hint of irony. Instead I pull on the two-sizes-larger-than-normal stretch denim Gap monstrosities that I bought in desperation several months after the baby was born. A year later they sag, making me look like a wannabe mama gangsta, but I can’t get to the store to buy new jeans, let alone a belt.

Other things have changed as well. Laced boots would prolong trying to leave the house with two screaming children. Necklaces require time to make decisions. Earrings attract tiny vice-like grips.

When I met my husband back in my Deliberately Disheveled days, I came up with a brilliant outfit. An outfit any man would love. A flower-patterned dress with spaghetti straps over a bright red union suit. Yes, union suit, the kind with a butt flap.

Now, I can’t wear anything that doesn’t allow nursing access, so both spaghetti strap zip in the back dresses and union suits are out. Thinking back on that outfit, I don’t think that’s a bad thing. It may be less fashionable, but the just plain disheveled look, might be an improvement for me.

This essay aired on AK. If you want to listen, visit the archives and click on 6/23/2007. Here’s a picture of us in with our ancient Subaru back in the Deliberately Disheveled days (note the men’s v-neck undershirt). The yellow dog is Cashew. The other dog is Roger, a neighborhood roamer.