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As I write this, I can feel summer at my back.

I can feel it blazing outside my window, the oppressive heat crackling on the concrete streets below, scorching the greenery, browning the skin, and leaving a hint of the earth burning in the air. It is a relentless season, one of reverie, sweat, fantasy, and adventure; best experienced with an open calendar and spirit, I believe.

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In recent weeks I have begun to fear something awful: that my style sources are redundant at best and reductive, at worst… I have begun to fear that it may be terribly trite for a modern young American woman like myself to admit that she looks to French women for styling cues, especially considering the emergent crop of style icons popping up stateside, and our female citizenry’s embarrassing impulse to break into song and dance over the mere mention of a Parisian make-over (cue Audrey Hepburn and Gene Kelly).

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