Delaney James was wearing Chanel the night her husband told her he didn't love her anymore.
In an instant, her picture-perfect Manhattan life-complete with a brownstone on the Upper East Side, a blossoming career as a fashion journalist, and a devas...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I tell myself I'm only checking the numbers once.
Unfortunately, I've been telling myself that for the last twenty minutes.
My coffee sits forgotten beside my laptop as I stare at the analytic dashboard for The Beauty Blueprint and hit refresh again. Then again. The one more time for good measure, because apparently self-control is another skill I failed to bring back with me from Manhattan.
The page reloads.
The subscriber count climbs by six.
I blink and hit refresh.
Three more.
Refresh.
Two more.
At this point, I'm starting to think the internet is screwing with me.
A disbelieving laugh slips out of me, and I lean back in my chair, dragging a hand through my hair. Six months ago, I was living in a brownstone on the Upper East Side, spending my days watching others interview designers and attend fashion events I could only dream of being invited to. Now I'm sitting barefoot in my parents' kitchen in South Grove, obsessively watching strangers subscribe to a blog I started on a whim.
Life is so weird.
I click over to my social media account and immediately regret it. The notifications are endless.
Comments.
Messages.
Tags.
Questions.
Somebody wants to know where I bought the blue-striped linen pants and crop sweater with the lobster on it from my latest reel. Three different women are asking if I'll link the sandals I wore in last week's video. Someone else says they bought the pair of white jeans because of me and now wears them at least once a week.
The one makes me smile.
When I started posting, I hoped for the best but expected nothing. I figured my mom, Adelaide, and a handful of friends would be the only ones paying attention, but my account has somehow turned into a place where women share outfit photos, swap recommendations, and ask for advice.
The strangest part is that they actually seem to trust me.
Not celebrities.
Not editors.
Not influencers with professional lighting and assistants.
Me.
I click on the reel I posted yesterday afternoon and watch the view count online continue to climb.
The video took less than an hour to film. I'd hooked my phone onto the tripod and recorded three ways to style different patterns without looking like you got dressed in the dark. There had been no production team. No photographer. No makeup artist.
