POGGI | The Case Against Being Low-Maintenance

I’ve never been a particularly organized person. I was never one to make my bed each morning or color-code assignments in a planner. I once prided myself on this disorganization, seeing those who opted for neatness as trivial or overly obsessed with aesthetics. In my mind, prettiness was a barrier to efficiency — a trivial and unnecessary focus in the grand scheme of “getting it done.”

As I’ve aged though, I’ve learned to appreciate the extra step of aesthetic attention. Whether it be dotting on concealer before class or staying consistent with note formatting, I’ve learned that neatness has a previously unappreciated benefit — it affirms standards I hold for myself, even if it serves no greater purpose.

NGUYEN | Talking Bodies

These days, impossible what-if’s over my appearance infest my thoughts like ants swarming a picnic basket. They dig themselves into my head all day long. As I’m getting dressed in the morning. Before I step into lecture halls packed with classmates. Whenever I catch my reflection in the Four Seasons window on my walk up to campus.

DUGGAL | Keepin’ it High Maintenance

Everyone’s got a few ways they stay sane in Ithaca. Some people have Netflix, some people have Tinder, some people have exercise and some (very put together) people have all three. I’ve got makeup tutorials. I love makeup. Nearly everyone that’s known me for more than a few interactions knows I adore makeup — putting it on me, putting it on other people, watching other people put it on, shopping for it, everything associated with the industry is part of a larger passion I have.

WEISSMANN | Vanity Fair

In the house where my brother lives, there are mirrors everywhere. There must be 15 or 16 of them lining the halls; circular mirrors with ornate frames, squares mirrors lined with old photographs, the floor-to-ceiling ones that interfere with normal depth perception. Everywhere I am I can see myself turning corners and gliding down the slippery wooden hallways and opening interior doors. I have an ugly affair with mirrors, not unlike a relationship with a disapproving grandmother whom you frequently check in on. Mirrors usually worsen my mood, yet they are magnetic to me — I glance at my reflection at every pass, revolving slowly like a microwavable pizza, catching all my angles.