Curly Queen

Stephanie Wornette is crushing on Sandra Pittana

If you grew up in Toronto, you’ve probably already encountered Sandra Pittana. She is that curly-headed clothing genius on Cityline that can make a cheap and cheerful ensemble sophisticated with her accessorizing magic. She is also full of the kinds of fashion stories you wish were your own (stylist in Mod-era Britain please, with two lumps of sugar). But perhaps what makes her the most crush-worthy is her open-minded approach to fashion that encourages personal style for the masses, pulling off gems like a YSL Russian collection coat 20 years later…

WORN was welcomed into Sandra’s home for hours of fashion musing about her mom the stylesetter, jumping into rivers for British Vogue, and curly hair angst.

God save the Queen.

When did you know that you wanted to work in fashion?
Like so many of us in this business, I had a fashion icon in my mom. She had an innate sense of style that was remarkable to me, topped off by the fact that she was also a business woman, at a time when women weren’t in business. She taught me to sew from a young age; I remember she’d make me clothes for school and would sometimes let me sew a seam. She’d stay up until four in the morning to finish the item, so the next day I could wear it to school and say “I made this.”

I went to school in England and became inspired, especially in London where being an individual has always been really celebrated. There’s something about London that’s quirky, that’s a little more adventurous. I like breaking the rules; I’ve always liked breaking the rules for fashion.

The funny thing about fashion is that it sort of comes and goes in all its incarnations, but the reality is it’s a simplified form of the arts world. You’re basically talking about a torso and two arms and two legs in most instances, there’s only so much you can do with that format, you know?

I think uniqueness will be the new luxury.
North America is such a land of excess and most of us don’t need more stuff. It’s lovely to have fewer, more select, individual pieces, that embody you. I often find that the pieces I buy that are in season are unintentionally worn less then. I tend to wear them more a season or two later, just because it isn’t so expected. You get to morph it into something slightly different because of what you put it with. You’re not so influenced by all the visual tags you see in every magazine, or on every blog.

Turns into a semiotic game to me. You just read the clothes as symbols of what’s trendy when you see the same thing over and over again.
I have a coat I still wear today, that I bought from Saint Laurent when he was doing this whole Russian thing, and it’s probably 28 or 30 years old. And I love it. And is it a bit odd? Yeah, but it’s terrific and I feel great in it and that to me is something that’s withstood the test of time because it’s surpassed being in or out, and I love that.

You worked at British Vogue as an Assistant Fashion Editor in the beginning of your career. Did you find that there was less of an emphasis on trends, and more of an emphasis on personal style there?
As you can imagine, it was a really exciting time in London. We’re talking late ’60s, early ’70s, and there was an awful lot happening. We were dying our poodles to match our suits and parading ourselves on the weekends—not just the women, but the men too. It was a very creative period in fashion and was a great time for me to learn. I worked for a wonderful woman, Melanie Miller, who started by making tea for Diana Vreeland. Our market was exquisite, expensive, one-of-a-kind, high end jewelry—McGraph and Cartier, and Van Cleef and Arpel jewels. I used to cart them around for photo shoots inside my coat! It drew less attention if I walked around disheveled with all of the stuff on me, than in a jewelry store with all of the security one would need…

Melanie would sometimes come up with a story idea that didn’t exist on the market. She would decide that red was the story line and that she was feeling great about embroidery, so they would create one-of-a-kind pieces for her. She taught me that if you have a dress, a model, and a photographer, you never know what’s going to happen in front of the camera. She wanted to make sure that for every dress there were ten necklaces, ten pairs of shoes, ten handbags, and ten hats so that there was always a plethora of accessories.

You can study the history of fashion all you want, but it was often a lot more about hands on, on the job learning, so it was a pretty privileged start. I look back on it and realize how lucky I was to get that knowledge first hand.

Yes, lucky, but you have to be able to handle an opportunity like that too. Do you have any favourite memories at Vogue?
SP: We were photographing with Sir Norman Parkinson (Parks), and we went out to a country estate to photograph ballgowns. We found this meandering river with a lovely stone bridge and low wall, and Parks decided it would be absolutely wonderful if the model laid down across the arc of the bridge, with her gown trailing over the front and blowing underneath. So, we had this beautiful vision but Parks had to stand in the middle of the river to shoot it. He was a very tall man, so willowy and elegant that you felt like he was 6’8″, and he just told me to drag a bench into the middle of the river for him to stand on. Of course, I fell as I went to take the bench into the river, and had to take my pants off and work the rest of the day in a little short jacket with only my underwear on. But we got beautiful photographs and I went home, carrying my pants in hand, soaking wet in the cold English countryside. Some silly memories.

How did you get to do Fashion Fridays on City TV Toronto?
I left Vogue and worked at Eaton’s doing market research and writing trend reports, but staying with the European market. I came back to Toronto and John McKay, the fashion expert on the Dini Petty show (today’s Cityline), was asked to find someone to give a female perspective. He originally recommended Jane Musset, who in turn suggested me. I took the position, and went on for what was really going to be a one-time thing—I’d have to say, after 23 years I’m the longest standing guest host! But the reality is that now I am the demographic of most people who watch TV. For a lot of younger people, TV moves way too slowly for them although we still do have our fair number of younger viewers.

A lot of people are on blogs, etc. but I think having something like Fashion Fridays with an expert stylist who will analyze a look and play around with it in real time still occupies a niche.
Often the stuff you see printed in magazines and elsewhere is not actually available. Buyers buy what will sell, editors buy couture. The one thing about Cityline is everything you see you can find in a store. Hopefully we are [instructive], because as we’ve talked about, you need to find your own comfort zone. Some people want to stretch a little while others want to play it safe.



One of our mottoes at WORN is “My style icon is anyone who makes a bloody effort.” – Isabella Blow

I love when someone makes an effort and makes a mistake, because at least they tried something outside of their comfort zone. But that’s just not the way it generally happens. Everybody just gets comfortable.

Issue 15 is all about hair. How do you feel about your curly hair?
I feel good about it. I straighten it occasionally, and I never feel good about it being straight, but I do love being able to put a comb or brush through. It’s a trade-off. I believe we should all embrace what we were given, because generally it tends to work the best for us. I look at a lot of people with curly hair who try to straighten it, and think, “Why don’t you just let it go?” But that’s me. I also think curly hair suits my personality while I’m not sure straight hair necessarily does. My daughter Daphne definitely agrees with that! She has curly hair too, and uses lavender oil and sea salt to take care of it.

Why do you think there is curl angst and this general movement to straighten it all out?

I think there is less curl angst now than before. But the strange thing about curly hair is that while I’m shopping when my hair is straight, I’ll gravitate to clothes that are quite different from what I’d try on when my hair is curly. You can’t exactly do a ruffle neck [with curly hair]. Whereas, if your hair is quite straight you can have some softness. So I like it better when your hair is almost the exact opposite of your clothing style. I think people aren’t as aware of that as they could be. The jewelry you choose with straight hair is different with curly hair. You have to look at it as part of the whole package.

Rumour has it you had little champagne pink highlights…
I had pale pink, but everyone thought I did it for breast cancer. I started experimenting with hair dyes when I was working at Vogue. I used to blow dry my hair out and would take water-based markers and put my hair on an ironing board and colour [my streaks] to match my outfits. I would do a lot of green and purple or red and pink. They looked a bit like feathers because of it being blown out soft. I had extensions for a while, but I never liked the feeling of the clip part. Today I don’t even think you hide the clip thing. Celebrities have made extensions the norm. It’s like you have a whole head of purple hair. That’s not punk; to me it’s just celebrating something being false. I don’t think it would be frowned upon today though. I was so conscious back then to make sure everyone thought it was natural.

That reminds me of the Hunger Games. The richest district is full of people with surreal hair celebrating the power of having no limits. Imagine Stanley Tucci with a blue bouffont! When your daughter was growing up, what did you want her to know about curly hair?
Celebrate whatever you have. It’s okay to embrace it. It’s fine. At first you braid it, to keep it under control, because the hair gets in your way. I watch Daphne now and she’s still always tying it up. And then she straightened it for a really long time. I celebrate the changes, but I also think you shouldn’t run away from what you already have. Experiment, have some fun, but don’t do it because of discomfort. Do it because you’re exploring the changes. I think that’s what I feel about fashion too. Just go with it, let it be, and see where it runs its gamut. Hate to think of what I’ll look like when I’m old. Curly hair and all the jewelry…

photography //Brianne Burnell

Geometress

The shape of fashion in a mod world

Readers, I must confess that the Wornettes made a groundbreaking scientific breakthrough during the shoot for the Issue 15 editorial, Geometress. Our art director Casie Brown was so adamant that we achieve period authenticity for this mod-inspired shoot that we literally traveled back in time to 1960s London. I won’t bore you with the technical details, but needless to say I think we nailed it. How else can you explain the pitch-perfect outfits modelled by our assistant publisher Sofia Luu and our graphic designer Natalie Papanikolov, or the era-evoking photography of Lisa Kannakko?

The simplest answer is usually the correct one, readers. Time travel.

video and text // Daniel Reis
titles design // Alexandra Niit
end animation // Barry Potter

La Brunette est Ma Blonde

Brushing hair and blushing cheeks

Wearing hair on just your head is so passé. For our Issue 15 editorial, La Brunette est Ma Blonde, wornette stylist Eliza Trent-Rennick created an entire wardrobe of follicular fashion for models Ave Smith and Rachelle Ralla. Hair blouses, bras, and shoes compliment other curiosities such as a clock purse and a telephone handbag. Photographed by Arden Wray, in the home of Erin Hall (owner of one of our favourite independent fashion boutiques Robber) even the wallpaper is worth swooning over.

video and text // Daniel Reis
titles design // Alexandra Niit
end animation // Barry Potter

Tresses in Texts

Five fantastic literary hair moments.

There’s nothing more precious than seeing someone grin or chuckle when reading a book. It makes you want to interrupt their reading, asking, What? What’s so funny? Tell meee.

I set out to accomplish the insurmountable task of selecting the greatest hair scenes in literature, ones that induce those grins and chuckles. At first I looked for moments that perfectly encapsulate the cultural landscape in which they were written (if the word “literature” doesn’t carry highbrow connotations, then what does?). In the end, I went with five hair disasters. My reasoning as to why I was drawn to these scenes can be concluded thusly: 1. They were hella funny and 2. Let’s face it, who doesn’t delight in a little in laughing at another’s misfortune? (What? It’s fiction.)

That’s not to say that these hair disasters existed in their literary contexts purely for the schadenfreude. As your high school English teacher would be all too happy to point out, these scenes of hair gone awry are actually momentous turning points in these characters’ lives. Bad hair days can teach very important life lessons. If it weren’t for these moments, we would never know that even nice domestic girls can get caught up in their looks; that attacking one’s vanity can be a powerful weapon; that Prince Humperdink is a big-time douchebag.

So without further ado, I present to you five of the very best hair scenes in literary history. I realize five is nothing in a sea of stories, so if you have any of your own favourites, please share them in the comments.

Matilda (1988) by Roald Dahl

Matilda is a mostly charming story with some pretty disturbing child abuse thrown in, because Roald Dahl had a twisted mind. Matilda (the character) was a vindictive bookworm with telekinetic powers who lived with awful, idiotic parents. Her dad, Mr. Wormwood, was particularly sadistic. I mean, the man tore up her library copy of The Red Pony in front of her. Pure evil. In retaliation, Matilda set out one morning to ruin his nice mop of black hair. She mixed his “Oil of Violets” hair tonic with her mom’s platinum blonde hair dye and waited for the magic of peroxide to happen:

Mrs. Wormwood looked up. She caught sight of her husband. She stopped dead. Then she let out a scream that seemed to lift her right up into the air and she dropped the plate with a crash and a splash on to the floor. Everyone jumped, including Mr. Wormwood.

“What the heck’s the matter with you, woman?” he shouted. “Look at the mess you’ve made on the carpet!”

“Your hair!” the mother was shrieking, pointing a quivering finger at her husband. “Look at your hair! What’ve you done to your hair?”

“What’s wrong with my hair, for heaven’s sake?” he said.

“Oh my God dad, what’ve you done to your hair?” the son shouted.

A splendid noisy scene was building up nicely in the breakfast room. Matilda said nothing. She simply sat there admiring the wonderful effect of her own handiwork. Mr. Wormwood’s fine crop of black hair was now a dirty silver, the colour this time of a tightrope walker’s tights that had not been washed for the entire circus season.

Anne of Green Gables (1908) by Lucy Maud Montgomery
Anne Shirley would not be Anne Shirley without her red braids. Anne without her signature ‘do would be akin to Bonnie without Clyde, Thelma without Louise, Dumb without Dumber (I’ll stop with the road trip movies). But throughout the series, Anne always struggled to love her locks. In L.M. Montgomery’s first novel, future-dreamboat Gilbert Blythe teases Anne for having red hair by calling her “Carrots.” (Boys are just the worst.) Anne is convinced her red hair is a curse, so she buys a bottle of hair dye from a peddler to turn her hair a bold black. Instead, it turned green (the characters react in horror, but you know Anne would be on trend today). Anne comes homes to her guardian, Marilla, and fesses up to her silly mistake:

“Anne Shirley, what have you done to your hair? Why, it’s GREEN!”

Green it might be called, if it were any earthly colour—a queer, dull, bronzy green, with streaks here and there of the original red to heighten the ghastly effect. Never in all her life had Marilla seen anything so grotesque as Anne’s hair at that moment.

“Yes, it’s green,” moaned Anne. “I thought nothing could be as bad as red hair. But now I know it’s ten times worse to have green hair. Oh, Marilla, you little know how utterly wretched I am.”

The Princess Bride (1973) by William Goldman
Chances are, you know the movie version of The Princess Bride by heart. Heck, if you’re anything like me, you probably weave the quotes into everyday conversations (You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means). But did you know the movie skipped out on a pretty great hair scene in William Goldman’s novel? Before Buttercup, Prince Humperdink was supposed to marry Princess Noreena of Guilder. At a grand feast, Humberdink is about to propose to Noreena until suddenly, a breeze blows through the castle and Noreena’s hat comes off to reveal that she is—gasp!—bald. A bald princess! Humperdink refuses to marry such an ugly woman and in his true-to-nature assholery style, he threatens to wage a heavy war with her country for the embarrassment it has caused him:

Prince Humperdinck made his angry way to the balcony above the Great Hall and stared down at the chaos. The fires were still in places flaming red, guests were pouring out through the doors and Princess Noreena, hatted and faint, was being carried by her servants far from view.

Queen Bella finally caught up with the Prince, who stormed along the balcony clearly not yet in control. “I do wish you hadn’t been quite so blunt,” Queen Bella said.

The Prince whirled on her. “I’m not marrying any bald princess, and that’s that!”

“No one would know,” Queen Bella explained. “She has hats even for sleeping.”

“I would know,” cried the Prince. “Did you see the candlelight reflecting off her skull?”

The Outsiders (1967) by S. E. Hinton
Confession: Ponyboy Curtis stole my heart in the eighth grade. He digged sunsets, cited poems by Robert Frost, and his association with fellow Greasers gave him brooding undertones of danger. Could you blame me? I would have run from the law with him, curfew be damned. In all seriousness, if you look past the dreamy boys and the fights, you’ll find that hair played a crucial role in The Outsiders. After the incident with the Socs (no spoilers here), Ponyboy and Johnny attempt to disguise themselves. Ponyboy gets his hair bleached, while Johnny gets his greasy hair cut off. The hair change was symbolic of their new identities as fugitives and no longer that of Greasers. After it happens, Ponyboy bemoans the loss of his greaser hair:

“It was my pride. It was long and silky, just like Soda’s, only a little redder. Our hair was tough—we didn’t have to use much grease on it. Our hair labeled us greasers, too—it was our trademark. The one thing we were proud of. Maybe we couldn’t have Corvairs or madras shirts, but we could have hair.”

Little Women (1868) by Louisa May Alcott
I re-read the classic tale this year and was reminded of a darling scene when Jo March, second eldest sister-slash-writer-slash-rebel (she was portrayed by both Katharine Hepburn AND Winona Ryder onscreen), convinces a barber to buy her hair for $25 so dear Marmee can take the train to see an injured Papa. When Jo comes home, she removes her bonnet and to the horror of the sisters, reveals her newly-cropped hair. Jo is so proud of her boyish ’do and gloats that it will be good for her vanity. Later that night, she sobs herself to sleep and confesses to big sis that vanity isn’t so easy to chop off:

“Jo, dear, what is it? Are you crying about father?” says Meg.

“No, not now,” says Jo.

“What then?”

“My… My hair!” burst out poor Jo, trying vainly not to smother her emotion in the pillow.

It did not seem at all comical to Meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.

“I’m not sorry,” protested Jo, with a choke. “I’d do it again tomorrow, if I could. It’s only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this silly way. Don’t tell anyone, it’s all over now. I thought you were asleep, so I just made a little private moan for my one beauty.”


illustration //
Jenn Woodall

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