This article is written by a student writer from the Her Campus at Williams chapter.
It happened quietly. It happened without fanfare, without ceremony, almost without conscious thought. Just one day, it was there. My secret style Instagram.
I wouldn’t call it an out-of-body experience, but I wouldn’t be surprised if my spirit left my corporeal being when I created it. Why did I need a second Instagram? My original account was a glorious freeform creation, a perfect balance of aesthetic and content. I had no shame, no rules, and a sea of semi-apathetic followers who existed not to validate but to bear witness to what I knew was true art.
But then again, when I was looking and feeling extra fly, I’d either save my selfies demurely to my camera roll or snapchat them to my dad. Why couldn’t I experience the same thrill of presentation with these pictures? Didn’t they deserve the same lukewarm adoration of friends, family, and strangers that my other pictures enjoyed? If my (albeit gorgeously composed) photo of an empty bag of Cheetos could get forty likes and bring joy to countless fans, why should my razor sharp fashion sense have no platform. And out of these semi-repressed musings came, miraculously, On Her College Flow.
@onhercollegeflow began simply. The first picture was shot in a mirror on the eve of my first big night out at college. Public reception was ambivalent: my JA commented “I like da room selfie” and my high school friend Kiera said “What is this.” I refused to explain myself to anyone who questioned me, and quietly followed my sister and some old friends. I let the others flock to me, drawn in by morbid curiosity.
(In retrospect I should have cleaned the mirror)
I stuck with the mirror motif for a while, proud to feature my favorite campus bathrooms. (Marble stalls? That’s luxury.)
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I didn’t tell any of my new college friends about my new baby. I didn’t want them to think I was that kind of girl. Sure, I grew up in a small New York suburb but I worked subversively within the system ok. I did theater and wrote poetry and most definitely called myself a feminist. I found myself justifying the existence of On Her College Flow and the validity of each post. I made efforts to ensure they wouldn’t read as “basic,” or god forbid, look like I took myself too seriously.
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(dang look at my editing skills, I should have gone to design school tbh)
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Interestingly, in real life I had no problem staring down strangers and classmates while I held a pose, waiting for my phone’s built in timer. Teachers, townies, electricians, and churchgoers have all borne witness to several shameless acts of curated self-presentation.
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(A bus driver literally stopped driving to watch me take this series).
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There existed an interesting tension between my feminist rhetoric (self-appreciation can exist separate from the male gaze! genuine self-expression can contain conflict! traditional manifestations of femininity can be subversive!) and my inherent shame. My pictures became imbued with this conflict: my fashion and my fledgling notions of self colliding.
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(entitled: Trash & Glamour)
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Sometimes what I wear is reactionary: a deliberate divergence from traditional beauty to convince myself I haven’t bought into some corrupt system. Often what I wear is lazy and purely function. But ideally what I wear is joyful: it doesn’t have to be political, and it doesn’t have to uphold all my beliefs. I can go hyper-femme one day and wear work pants the next. If I get a kick out of showing this fact to electricians, churchgoers or the Internet, it doesn’t render me self obsessed. At the end of the day, I contain multitudes and so does my wardrobe.
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