Let's be honest, there's a certain breed of starlet who plays it safe on the red carpet. They cling to the predictable, the ethereal, the whisper-thin Valentino. Not Hailee Steinfeld. This girl, she dives headfirst into a vat of color, and emerges, dripping and fearless, on the other side.
Take, for instance, that Valentino couture number she wore – the one that practically broke the internet. A giant, billowing cloud of fuchsia. Pepto-Bismol pink, some snarked. But on her? It sang. It was a power move disguised as a confection, a declaration that she, Hailee Steinfeld, refuses to blend in.
And it's not just the bold hues. It's the way she wears them. There's a knowingness, a playful wink that says, "Yes, I know this is extra. And I like it." Remember that emerald green sequined suit? The one with the plunging neckline that would make a lesser mortal break into a cold sweat? Steinfeld? She owned it. Strode onto that red carpet like she owned the whole damn sidewalk.
It reminds me of a young… no, scratch that. Comparisons are lazy. Steinfeld is carving out her own space in this industry, and she's doing it with a paintbox and a whole lot of swagger. It's a refreshing change from the studied nonchalance, the carefully curated "I woke up like this" aesthetic that pervades Hollywood. Steinfeld is deliberate, she's present, and she's having fun. And that, my friends, is what true style is all about.
Of course, it helps that she has the kind of bone structure that could make a burlap sack look chic. But it's more than that. It's a confidence that radiates from within, a refusal to be anything less than fully herself. In a world obsessed with fitting in, Steinfeld dares to stand out.
I recall a time, years ago, when I was backstage at a Marc Jacobs show. The energy was electric, a maelstrom of hairspray and last-minute adjustments. And then, through the chaos, walked Sofia Coppola. She was a vision in a simple black dress and ballet flats, her hair pulled back in her signature unfussy style. She moved with a quiet confidence, an aura of self-possession that instantly silenced the room. It wasn't about the clothes, not really. It was about the woman in them. The utter lack of artifice. The quiet power of knowing exactly who she was.
Steinfeld possesses a similar quality, albeit expressed through a very different lens. She's not afraid to be bold, to experiment, to push boundaries. She understands that fashion is a language, and she's fluent in its most vibrant dialects.
This isn't to say that she never misses the mark. We all have our off days. But even her missteps feel deliberate, a willingness to take risks that is, frankly, exhilarating to watch. Because in a world where so many are content to follow, Steinfeld leads. She charts her own course, a kaleidoscope of color against a backdrop of beige.
And that, my friends, is what I call chutzpah.
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