Yesterday, if you asked me what I thought of Julia Fox, I would have said something miserably boring like “she seems a bit much.” Yesterday, I would have been wrong. Today, I fully conceive of her power and joy. Today, I could recite that little saying that’s like, “If there was one Juila Fox fan on earth that fan is me.” What happened? The “bralaclava” happened.
Julia made the pilgrimage back to her birthplace, Milan, Italy, for its fashion week, where she wore the bralaclava (bra + balaclava) with her signature catcoon (cat + raccoon) eye. I gasped when I saw it. It was the most beautiful and impractical item of clothing I’d ever seen, making it the zenith of fashion. You can’t shake your head too vigorously in agreement or disagreement, or you risk exposing yourself. But then again, you’re in Europe and everyone has a much more sophisticated outlook on nipples there. Further, and I say this with the utmost of respect, I’m not convinced Julia Fox can feel shame.
Before we move on, I also want to acknowledge the booty crack window in her skirt, putting her pale ass on display. The entire outfit celebrates the transition of seasons. It’s perfect.
The bralaclava, the booty window, and Julia’s little pose with her peacocked little hand brought it all together for me. She’s the only person on this goddamn earth having any fun. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before. I wrongly thought she was acting out, dressing insanely for clout. What a small brain I had! But brains and catcoon-winged eyeliner can grow. Maybe if I stopped mainlining Olivia Wilde/Miss Flo drama for one goddamn day I would’ve seen it earlier. Maybe her romance with Kanye put a bad taste in my mouth. But in retrospect, getting a whole new wardrobe and a Birkin bag from your boyfriend only to say a month later, “I wasn’t in love with the man,” is a chaotic power move I’m inclined to respect.
Every other celebrity is practically killing themselves to maintain soft beachy waves and a highlighted orbital bone. You can see the anguish in the eyes of the women in Us Weekly as they walk a tightrope of performed femininity for an audience asleep at the wheel! Meanwhile, Julia is stomping around the East Village looking absolutely incredible, like if the alien in Alien and Danny Zuko fucked.
I recognize the error of my ways. I repent. I’ve followed all of the appropriate fan accounts and am limiting my exposure to Don’t Worry Darling. I have the bralaclava to thank for helping me clean up my act.