Ihaven’t always dressed like the unholy spawn of Sweeney Todd and a can-can dancer. It wasn’t until my mid-20s that I developed the confidence, sense of self, and budget to fully realize my froufrou-goth aesthetic, fueled by inky Comme des Garçons , 19th-century top hats, vintage Alaïa , and Schiaparelli (both by Elsa and Daniel Roseberry). Long before I was Katharine K., a red-lipped, bitchy-bobbed caricature of a New York fashion editor, I was Katie, an awkward kid who yearned to fit in with her Abercrombie-clad peers.

Katie promptly learned that the black bowler hat, red blazer, and pleated wool skirt she wore on the first day of fourth grade attracted more bullies than besties. So, for many years, she adopted the uninspired, ill-fitting uniform of so many popular girls in suburb

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