Sartorial Scrut of Amherst Students

A couple of weekends ago, in a fit of good-will towards man that I have yet to repeat, I decided to see my friend play the role of “Happy Vagina Fact #1” in a performance of “The Vagina Monologues” at Amherst College.

In addition to drinking about 18 cups of coffee in the frustratingly intermission-free two and a half hours of the show, I was also able to do some valuable fashion reconnaissance work on the Amherst population.

It is always good, my young friends, to compare Harvard fashion with other schools’ fashion in order to gain accurate perspective on Harvard’s particular wretchedness. It shows us what we must work on, but can also—on rare occasion—make us feel smug in our hearts.

I came expecting to see the detritus of fashion worn by the types of Dave Matthews adherents who also want to go to law school. And that’s what I got. But, strangely enough, it was equal parts terrifying and refreshing.

The journey started inauspiciously enough. After a layover in a bus terminal—during which I was only able to play a game of “I Spy Boston Red Sox Paraphernalia” with myself—I arrived at my destination. During my first steps on campus, I was feeling much like Monica Lewinsky after she debuted her new handbag collection—namely, excited and scared.

When I got to the auditorium (which I was gleefully told was upholstered in wall to wall red carpeting “to go with the theme!”) it was mobbed. I kept hearing snippets of conversation like, “This is going to be so awesome. It was fucking life-changing last year!”

Everyone was very excited for the show, but fortunately did not “dress up” for it. Thus, I was able to view the specimens in their natural coating.

In general, the women and men of Amherst seem to dress somewhat alike. They revel in jeans, t-shirts with political messages, and sweatshirts with the names of other colleges besides Amherst on them.

The men sometimes change up this uniform by wearing knit hats with earflaps, in order to guard them from the cold. People sported all varieties of clogs, sandals and fleece vests.

I took out my bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans and popped them into my mouth, while playing “I Spy a Patagonia Jacket.”

The show was interesting and, probably most interestingly, I did not fall asleep. Everyone in the cast wore red boas (to go with the theme). Afterwards, my friend invited me to an after-party featuring a band that was “slammin’.” When I arrived, the band (which was approximately the size of Earth Wind and Fire) was playing a Fiona Apple song.

People were guzzling apricot-flavored beer, doing the robot lustily, and singing all of the words to Ms. Apple’s ditty, while their extremely long Jesus-was-a-carpenter curls floated in the breeze. I picked at least four knit hats off the floor and about three Livestrong bracelets doused in apricot-flavored slime. That’s commitment to the art of dance.

Eventually the police broke up the party and we trudged back to the dorm, where my friend went to wash off her stage makeup and her roommate and various suspiciously Christ-like men started speaking French. I told them I didn’t speak French. They did not say anything and continued speaking French, I believe about the myriad meanings of the Vagina Monologues. One of them was knitting.

I went to bed shortly thereafter, pondering if going through the Springfield bus terminal the next day at six in the morning would be either the best of times, or the worst of times.

There is something so cloying about the irony implicit in the Harvard metrosexual intellectual or Final Club bon vivant, which is refreshingly lacking at Amherst. People aggressively don’t care about fashion (unlike the mere lack of initiative on the Harvard campus) and you have to admire it. I mean, at least they are practical and substantive. Fiona Apple would be proud.



Three Tips On Being an Amherst Fashion Maven:



1) Be able to wear sandals at inappropriate times.



2) Speak disparagingly about Mount Holyoke College while wearing a sweatshirt that says, “Mount Holyoke College” on it.



3) Get a French Press.



—Staff writer Rebecca M. Harrington can be reached at harrington@fas.harvard.edu.