#so have some ironing advice I learned the hard way: do not iron wool fabrics (too much). you will stretch them.

[throwing-roses-into-the-abyss]

so I may have slightly burned my pirate shirt.

[korporxie]

how it starts.

Lots of people explain their maturity and strength and their wisdom by virtue - or vice - of having grown up quickly. For reasons beyond their control, they had to shoot upwards in emotional and mental years while physically, they stayed the same. I have no such story, I suppose. I grew up at the proper pace, and wanted for very little as a child. Maybe the lack of want made me even more immature than many other children. There were many parts of me, I think, that were unfortunately naive to the world around me. 

So no. I cannot say that I grew up quickly and gained wisdom from it, but I can say that I was shocked out of my blissful youth at age twenty with a hot iron and a sort of desperation that belongs only to those with a knife to their throat. My maturity came by force, by necessity, by a drive to survive and ensure that the people around me survived, too. 

That is not to say, however, that I knew everything I needed to know in a night. There were lessons to be learned the hard way. When my family was cast from the High Houses and sent to trial, with shackles that weren’t needed to keep my siblings and I still, kneeling on cold stone and praying, I hardly knew a thing at all. I knew music, and literature, and manners, and I knew that these things happened, but never to us. It could never be us. Right? We see the nightmares and we frown and we feel pity but we feel so certain that it could never be us standing on the chopping block.

Not until we are.

Claude Sinclair is an old, wealthy man, the Sinclair family an offshoot of House Durendaire. He’s been a widower ever since I was a young child, and he had always been beloved for being a talented artist with both words and paint. Many members of the High Houses had his paintings hung in their high homes. My own family had commissioned him for a painting of my mother while she was still on stage, glittering in rhinestone covered fabric and diamond jewelry. 

We had to sell it for half its original price in order to pay for a few of our meals, but I digress. 

When we became disgraced, Monsieur Sinclair came to call on me specifically, and at the time I was touched. Few people from the High Houses wanted anything to do with us. It was social suicide. We had dodged execution by a miracle and a miracle only, but we had not - and will never - be allowed back our place in society. But Monsieur Sinclair, it seemed, was empathetic to our plight. He walked to rickety home in the Brume and asked to walk with him with a smile on his face, telling me he had an opportunity for me to make some money.

Considering our circumstances - which included selling all of our worldly possessions to pay off debts - I wasn’t going to turn my nose up at anything. And why couldn’t I trust Monsieur Sinclair? I had known him since, well... since birth. He had already taken Hugo in as his personal attorney and financial advisor at that point, rescuing us before we could fall too deeply into a pit of poverty.

Surely if he had an opportunity for me then it would be just as appealing and dignified. Wouldn’t it?

“I have been meaning to hire a new housemaid, Odette,” he told me as we wove our way out of the Brume, and I blinked, but I did not balk. It stood to reason that this was one of my options. 

“I see. Is that what you came to talk to me about, monsieur?” 

“Ah, well, I suppose. But you’ve grown up so prettily, Odette. You are marvelously beautiful, you know this? Even more beautiful than your mother was at your age. Like... Like one of the muses of myth, come to life. Better than Menphina,” he added in a whisper, like the goddess couldn’t hear him, and I even smiled at the joke.

I smiled at the fucking joke.

“You are kind, Monsieur Sinclair, and generous with your praise, but I don’t need to be pretty to be a maid. It only stands to reason that I would need to be hardworking and reliable, no?” I asked, tilting my head, and he hummed a little at that before gesturing for me to follow him down a street that I wouldn’t usually wouldn’t take - not anymore.

It was a road that lead back up to the High Houses.

Monsieur Sinclair could clearly sense my hesitation, because now my skirts were not fine. They were of rough and unattractive wool that itched, but not as much as the rough wool socks I wore did. All of them, though, marked me - they marked me, although they shouldn’t have, because I was no lesser than I ever was. Those in the Brume were not lesser. But it is Ishgard’s way, I suppose.

“Come, mon trésor. You will be safe with me. You have my word.”

Mon trésor. My treasure. I thought little of it. He was an elderly man known for his romantic writings and romantic paintings and romantic way of speech. He was warm and familiar with all who interacted with him. Truth be told, I was quite fond of Monsieur Sinclair. He had given Olivier a great deal of advice, had always read over his poems and manuscripts and provided feedback in earnest.

There was no reason to not trust this man who had watched me go from child to teenager to young woman, who was now extending a hand out to my family in order to aid us in our time of need. 

Did I not say that I was shocked out of such blissful naiveté, though? 

“It is a shame that you will not be able to dance and perform as you once did, mademoiselle. To know that you were headlining a show always ensured a front row seat for me,” he lamented as he walked the winding paths with me keeping my head down, trying to trail after him as a servant might to avoid attention.

“Ah, monsieur, twenty is a bit old for ballet, anyhow. I was beginning to outgrow those leading roles. They’d soon start casting me as la matrone,” I joked, and he laughed, and I smiled because he’d like the joke. “But, monsieur... What is it that we have to talk about that I must go to your home...?”

His home was grand. Of course it was. He preferred dark, dramatic interiors to the lighter ones that I was used to. Maman adored wide open windows that let plenty of sunlight in, and light curtains that didn’t block it out. Our furniture was light, too, and the walls were painted pale yellows and greens and purples and pinks and blues. But Monsieur Sinclair had a flair for a different sort of dramatic, I suppose, with his rich, dark reds and dark browns and brocades in gold and black along his walls.

Servants bowed and curtsied to us as we walked inside, until they caught sight of my face - and then many of them looked a little confused, unsure if they should be bowing or curtseying to me at all. I wanted to tell them not to, as I always had, but something in me was beginning to feel that something was... off.

Maybe it had to do with how Monsieur Sinclair would merely chuckle or titter when I asked him questions until we got to his studio. 

“I’d like you to sit for a painting for me, Odette,” he said, closing the heavy wooden door behind me, and I fought to shake off this odd feeling settling in the pit of my stomach. 

“A painting...?”

“Oh, yes. You are the loveliest creature I have set my eyes on. How could I never paint you?”

“You have,” I began, and he waved a hand as he stepped through the messy studio. Canvases laid on the floor which was covered by thick white tarps, brushes overflowing in cups filled with colorful dirty water. The room spelled of oils, with more than a few splatters of color against the walls, as if someone had thrown an entire palette. 

“Not like that, not like that. Not a family portrait or one specially done to hang over a mantle, you see? Something of... of substance! Art, mon trésor! One of you, Odette. Just of you. One like... One like... Let’s see here...” 

I stood still as a statue as this old man - still in his thick jacket from walking outside in the bitter cold of winter - began to look through tarp-covered paintings leaned up against the wall. Someone knocked on the door, and I startled, but Monsieur Sinclair called for them to come back later, and I heard the footsteps disappear back down the hall, and we were alone again.

Leave, I thought. Trust your gut. Shouldn’t you trust your gut if something feels wrong? Tell him you have to go, and--...

“One like this!” the old man said brightly, and he stepped away from the wall with the canvas he had selected, smiling broadly while I stared.

The painting was... crude. It was beautifully done, I suppose, but it was crude all the same. It was of a woman of about my figure and size laying on her back, fully nude, with her legs spread and head thrown back, pleasuring herself with her fingers. Her mouth was open in apparent ecstacy, sweat beading along her skin, her dark hair undone and clinging to her shoulders.

“Monsieur--!” I began, horrified, and he started to laugh as he turned back to look at me.

“Exquisite, isn’t it? And how more exquisite - how more exquisite, mon trésor, if I was able to paint you just the same. No... No, not the same. You are so beautiful, Odette. You would transcend my abilities as an artist. To capture you would be to capture something heavenly. A sin, perhaps, for me to even try, but if it is sin that I am tempted into--”

“Monsieur!” I said again, louder, feeling my eyes shaking as I met his gaze, but... What else could I say? How could I have expected this? He had known me since I was a child. How could he ever-- how could he think--?

“My girl, you are as pale as a sheet now,” he said, laughing, and the laughter felt mocking. “You are not a little girl anymore, are you? Does such a painting truly shock you? I can hardly believe it would, after your upbringing with your mother, and I’ve seen how those young gentlemen chase after you. This cannot be new to you, can it? Or are you more pure than you seem?”

It felt like I had entered some terrible dream sequence. An hour ago I was merrily greeting who I thought was an old family friend, and now I was in his house, staring at a painting that he refused to tuck away and listening to him make assumptions of how pure or impure I might be, being asked to pose for just such a portrait, and...

“This is entirely out of line and disastrously inappropriate,” I said, breathless, forcing myself to look away from the painting and back at Monsieur Sinclair. “I am grateful, sir, for all you have done for my family, but this-- this is simply too much. You asked me to be your housemaid--”

“I did. And I stand by it. But how nice to make some extra money, don’t you think? I’d pay you well to sit and model for me. You know, Odette, I have had eyes for you for the longest time. If I didn’t enjoy my freedom so much, well, I’d be able to fix your tragic situation far more easily than this.”

His eyes glittered, and they were dark and horrible and did not house any of the warmth I used to see in them. In an instant, something had changed. He did not seem doddering or romantic. He seemed wicked. There was something nefarious and wrong in the way this man regarded me.

“I would marry you,” Monsieur Sinclair said, smiling, as he stared at me. “And what a beautiful bride you would be. But, I think, you make a far better muse. There is such sadness in your eyes, my girl. There always has been, ever since you were knee high. You know that? Such a tortured soul. But over what?”

“Thank you for your offer,” I muttered, starting to turn, “but I cannot accept. Not as a housemaid, muse, or your wife. This is madness, monsieur. This is surely some sort of sick joke that I can forget come morning.”

And the bastard, he grabbed my arm. He moved faster than I had ever seen him, and his old hand was on my wrist, and he was preventing me from walking through the door. He was still smiling, but it was... worse. It wasn’t kind.

“I will speak plainly. You are not a stupid girl, nor are you a child, so I won’t dance around the subject. Your brother relies on me for income. No one else would take him in. And did you know that I’ve been helping Olivier get some of his writing published? I wasn’t sure if he’d told you yet. And Philip...”

I could spit. I should have hit him and run. I should have. But I didn’t.

“I offered to pay for the last bit of Philip’s studies at the boy’s school, Odette. Your parents are grateful to me. And how wonderful, wouldn’t it be, to continue working with me? I have been generous. And who else would take in a disgraced family like yours? Hm?”

How long had he been thinking of? How long had he been planning? Had he always wished for this day, where we were vulnerable and could not say no, or was it just a happy coincidence? 

“What are you getting at?” I snapped, and he tightened his grip on my wrist.

“Refuse me, and I will withdraw all of my finances and all of my assistance,” Monsieur Sinclair murmured, still smiling. “You will lose everything. You will be in the Brume, scraping and begging, for the rest of your life. I have connections. I could close your father’s business down. And it is a simple thing, Odette, to clean for me, to come and sit for paintings. Isn’t it?” 

Cruel. Cruel. Evil. Wicked. Shockingly wicked. A wolf in sheep’s clothing. Why was he doing this? How? And did anyone else know? Did people know this man’s true character and just chose to never speak of it? He had always known my family. How could he threaten them, now? How could he look me in the eyes and threaten them? 

But I was... naive. I was young. I was scared of the power he now wielded, because I had none to retaliate with. 

There was no saying no. He had trapped me, and I had never felt more idiotic in my whole entire privileged little life. 

“You are evil,” I whispered, and he frowned, letting go of my wrist.

“No, mon trésor. I am giving you chances and choices, because I love you and your family so. But nothing in life comes for free. You are no fool. You understand that now, don’t you?” 

Monsieur Sinclair sighed and took a step back, gesturing to the door, and I grabbed the heavy brass handle immediately. 

“Take a couple of days to think on it, Odette. Ah, but... I’d keep these terms and agreements between us. Your father has a hot temper. If he storms in here, upset over something silly and the Temple Knights got their hands on him again...”

My father. My precious father, laying in the snow and bleeding from the head while Hugo tried to shield my mother from the rest of the blows the night that they were arrested. My mother was screaming, Philip was crying, Olivier had already been knocked out for clocking a Knight in the jaw. There was blood, because my father had never known how to go down quietly.

Because on the Temple Knights had grabbed me by the hair and tried to drag me down the road away from them, and he had acted before he thought, and I thought they had beaten him to death right in front of our eyes. 

“Fuck you,” I breathed, and Monsieur Sinclair chuckled again.

“Only if I’m lucky. I look forward to your return, Odette. You’ll be back,” he added, winking, and I hated him. I hated him so much I could scream and lose my head. I hated him so much for preying on us when we were weak.

I hated him, because we both knew that he was right.

I stormed from the house. I stormed through the High Houses and their winding, sloping roads, and I found a dark alley, and I screamed into my hands until my throat felt like it was bleeding. Betrayal and backstabbing had always been a hallmark of Ishgardian society.

But then again, well... You never think it can happen to you, do you?

[hairterminator]

http://blog.hair-terminator.com/charming-outlook/

How To Pick The Right Suit For Your Body Shape

#Norway", "#Sweden", "#Denim", "#Topshop #http://blog.hair-terminator.com They say that in life, you have to play the hand you’re dealt, which is true. However, you can also stack the deck in your favour with some tactical tailoring. A good suit enhances (read: hides) Mother Nature’s

#Norway", "#Sweden", "#Denim", "#Topshop #http://blog.hair-terminator.com

They say that in life, you have to play the hand you’re dealt, which is true. However, you can also stack the deck in your favour with some tactical tailoring. A good suit enhances (read: hides) Mother Nature’s gifts: it’s like wearing an Instagram filter, or walking around with flattering lighting constantly overhead. Slip it on, and suddenly you’re a new, better-looking man, as if God Himself has retouched you. Although, not all suits are good for everybody, or indeed every body. Whether you’re short, tall, skinny, large or stacked, a bespoke solution is required – even if you’re only buying off the peg. Finding the right suit needn’t be a gamble. This is the FashionBeans guide to the type of suit that, well, suits your type.

Short Men

So what if you drew the vertically challenged genetic straw, it needn’t suck all that much, or even appear to be the case once you learn a few tricks of the trade. “Think linear,” says Tim Ardron, head of private tailoring at Savile Row’s Gieves & Hawkes, which has over 200 years’ experience dressing everyone from Michael Jackson to the Duke of Cambridge. In other words, the aim is to create the appearance of one long line from head to toe. “A neat, tapered trouser worn slightly higher on the hip adds inches to the legs,” continues Ardron. By contrast, a big break (the amount of trouser that falls onto the shoe) or drop crotch will shorten them, and you. “Balance this with a more contemporary length on the jacket.” Many brands and retailers offer ‘short’ cut versions of their suits; this elongates your pins, while the deep V-shape created by a two-button jacket ensures your torso isn’t too diminutive.

Avoid belts and wearing a suit as separates, which will saw you in half like a bad magician and stop the eyes flow from top to bottom. Pinstripes, on the other hand, do the opposite by directing the eye up and down, as long as they’re not too thick or widely spaced. Similarly, micro-checks are better than large windowpanes. Extra shirt cuff peeking out from under the arm of the jacket can also help your suit look proportionally smaller and not like an adult size being worn by a child, as will slimmer lapels. At the same time, you want enough structure in the shoulders to balance out your head, which can appear disproportionately large. A diagonal peak lapel simultaneously provides a vertical line and a bit of horizontal heft.

Tall Men

Those in this category have the opposite problem to short men and therefore – surprise, surprise – the opposite solution. More specifically, the aim is to break up the vast space between your head and toes all the way down there in the distance, beneath the clouds. Your trousers should break (cleanly, though) on your shoes: any hint of mankle will make it look like your suit has shrunk, as will overly short sleeves. “There’s a lot of you, so try not show this off too much,” says Campbell Carey, creative director of Huntsman, another Savile Row stalwart, founded in 1849. Your jacket should also be on the longer side to cut your leg line. “Don’t fall into the trap of showing a load of trouser fly and, worse still, shirt sticking out below the jacket button,” says Carey.

Speaking of jacket buttons, there are conflicting opinions over whether a third one breaks up a lanky torso or highlights it. The simple answer is that it depends on the placement: a high three-button is creating a long line in one direction; a low two-button is doing the same but in the other direction. Neither is particularly helpful. An extra ticket pocket (a small flapped opening usually above the right hip pocket) will help clutter you up, as will wearing a pocket square. Ditto patterns that send the eye sideways like big checks. Wearing separates is one of your greatest weapons when it comes to looking less lofty. Mixing and matching trousers and blazers not only gets you more wear out of your sartorial wardrobe, it also breaks up a tall frame. You can even further this by adding a belt (your shorter friends should have a few going spare if they have read the above).

Skinny Men

Skinny men share some of the same problems as the short and tall guy, but predominantly the latter. “Gentlemen with a skinnier build should follow the same advice as a taller client,” says Gieves’ Ardron. “There’s no need to go overly tapered or skinny fit. The purpose of tailoring is to flatter and disguise any quirks or figurations, not to accentuate them.” Your goal is to add some weight to your barbell-like physique. Busy patterns, pleated trousers with cuffs and even heavier fabrics like tweed and wool will all pile it on from an onlooker’s perspective. “Checks and textured weaves can add presence,” says Ardron.

A double-breasted jacket, with its overlapping material at the front and buttons that encourage lateral thinking, will give you visual gains quicker than a tub of Freakbeast 5000. While you might want standard rather than slim lapels to counteract your rakishness, and maybe a bit of extra shoulder padding like the short guy, always keep everything broadly in proportion to your body and head. Too wide and you’ll look like Frasier’s brother Niles.

Larger Men

The style world has got increasingly better at catering for guys with larger builds, and therefore you shouldn’t be deterred from tailoring, especially as this is your opportunity to contour. You’ve got more things in common with the vertically challenged guy, in that you want to create a long – and, crucially, lean – line. “I would advise a similar formula to the short body type,” says Huntsman’s Carey. “Stay well away from large checks as they will shorten your silhouette. A narrow pinstripe on a slimming darker base gives a longer look.”

As with the Napoleonic chap, a two-button jacket and high-waisted trousers are your friends in the right places, elongating and narrowing accordingly. Again, a peak lapel can contribute to your verticality, while its width is more proportional to, well, yours. Meanwhile, the reverse of the skinny guy applies to you: lighter fabrics like hopsack or cotton can take a few optical pounds off. And don’t make the common mistake of going baggy to try to hide your girth, as you’ll only exaggerate it: the jacket should skim your shoulders. You can nip it in to give the illusion of a narrow waist (slanted hip pockets can also perform the same trick), providing it’s not bursting at the seams.

Athletic Men

Have you been working out? Congratulations: chances are you’ve got the ideal build for a suit. Just don’t mess it up. “It’s a question of proportion: striking the right balance between a tapered waist and the correct fit across broad shoulders,” says Gieves’ Ardron. “I see too many younger chaps walking around with their jackets hacked in to the point where the waist button is about to pop off.” Tailoring is designed to emphasise your form in the same way that the gym does. So if you’ve already put the hard work in at your local iron paradise, you don’t need your suit to do any heavy lifting: “Cuts with soft, natural shoulders tend to work best,” adds Ardron. In a similar vein, aggressively tapered trousers – a very modern affliction – will make you look like Johnny Bravo: balance is always more elegant. (Ditto dramatic peak lapels – a proportionally wide notch is less showy.) Besides, you don’t want to think you skip leg day.

If anything, you want to add bulk to your bottom half with details such as pleats, which will also make room for your squatter’s glutes, quads and hams (as will a larger rise – the gap between the waistband and crotch seam). A slightly longer jacket will give your chicken legs some stuffing to even out your heaving pecs. The only real problem men of this body type have is their ability to buy off the peg. “Ready-to-wear is always difficult as the industry tends to expect a big chest to come with a big gut to match,” says Huntsman’s Campbell. If you can’t spring for bespoke or made-to-measure, find retailers that sell suit jackets and trousers separately. When it comes to pattern and colour, you can pretty much do what you like according to Campbell. For example, he recently made bright blue and aubergine suits for NFL players Allen Hurns and Allen Robinson, AKA the Jacksonville Jaguars’ wide receivers: “Quite a statement, but with their musculature, they looked fantastic – and I wasn’t in a rush to tell them otherwise…”

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