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 This year’s Met Gala theme is officially called Superfine: Tailoring Black Style. But somewhere between the press releases and the blog posts, folks decided to shorthand it to “Dandyism.”
Dandyism? That’s feathers and frills for frills’ sake. But Black male style? It’s Sunday’s finest, worn on Monday because the world required it. Black male style is not a costume, it’s armor. It’s Frederick Douglass in a double-breasted frock coat. Nat King Cole smooth in satin lapels. Malcolm X buttoned up, ready for the meeting and the movement. My father wasn’t a dandy. He’s a Rhodes Scholar, a Renaissance man who wore suits tailored on Capitol Hill, fedoras from Andrea’s, and a stride equal parts cool elegance and intention. His style wasn’t frivolous—it was fortified for the pulpit, the protest, and the principal's office. Every seam was stitched for survival, dignity, and grace. Before you turn on the Met Gala pre-show and start handing out best-dressed awards from your sofa (because who’s gonna check you?), don't forget to Pause with Simone. On Sunday, I’m asking: Have You Seen God Today? When you look closer, you will see God in all the beautiful details. Suited for what's next, Simone Butterfly Editor-in-Chic
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 It started, as many of my stories do, with a closet full of gowns but no gas in the car.
I had just finished a rehearsal for Shiloh Baptist's rendition of the Seven Last Words when Margarita — my agent and chaos coordinator—called. "You need to be in Geneva by Wednesday." "Geneva? As in, Switzerland?" "Yes. Rolex is doing a thing. You’re on the list." I stared at the blinking battery light on my iPhone 13 and did a quick mental inventory:
Turns out, a low-key fashion foundation called Watch & Whisper had seen me perform at the Allegory Bar at the Eaton (thank you, soft lighting and Insta filters). One of their board members—rumored to be a Calvin Klein muse turned crypto queen—made a call. By morning, I had a roundtrip ticket from JFK to GVA via IcelandAir, a reservation at Hôtel Les Armures, and a velvet envelope labeled PRESS ACCESS: ROLEX. The luggage? Missing in action. But the essentials? Packed in a Yvette Crocker carry on. I wore a Valentino trench from Secondi, and carried a hatbox from L Train Vintage. With my spirits high and my wig higher I approached customs. Of course, I was pulled aside. Not for contraband, though, but because the officers thought I was someone. When asked, I nodded solemnly. "Aren't we all?" The officer laughed. I laughed. But my luggage never arrived. By the time I hit the Rolex floor in Geneva—face beat, lips lacquered, and swaddled in borrowed Balmain—I looked like real money even if my bank account was giving “pending transaction.” The new Rolex? A platinum Land Dweller with an integrated bracelet that had me plotting a DIY version of my own. The afterparty? A private suite reserved for 25 royal guests from Cameroon. Naturally, I sang a Nina Simone–Roberta Flack medley. These days protest songs hit the same all over the world. We are all trying to overcome something or someone, S1mOne  Maybe I shouldn’t have worn yellow chiffon on a 45-degree day. But darling, we dress for where we’re going—not where we’re at.
That’s what I whispered to myself as I stepped onto Pennsylvania Avenue this Emancipation Day—wind whipping, heels clicking, chiffon billowing like I was leading a freedom march on a Harlem's Row runway. Washington, DC has honored Emancipation Day since 1862—before the rest of the country caught up. And what better way to celebrate freedom than by refusing to shrink, be silent, or fade into the background? For warmth, I slipped thermals under my skirts and tucked hand warmers in my clutch—because you can show up and show out without catching pneumonia. The goal isn’t to suffer for the cause, darling—it’s to outwit the powers that be. ✨ With heat packs, high heels, and holy intentions, Simone B. P.S. What are you wearing to Emancipation Day 2025? - The all-day celebration starts with a parade, rolls into a star-studded concert at Freedom Plaza (hosted by sneaker-clad Britt Waters of ABC 7), and ends with fireworks. Expect soulful sets from Anthony Hamilton, Chante Moore, Raheem DeVaughn (with the Crank Crusaders!), Black Alley, Tim Bowman, Jr., DJ Kool, and the Washington Performing Arts Children of the Gospel Choir. Visit emancipation.dc.gov for the full lineup. P.P.S. I’ll be the one in yellow, near the front. Click here to join my mailing list or drop me a note.  Maybe I should have joined the parade at the Tidal Basin—bless the tourists and their selfie sticks—but anyone who knows me knows I take the road less traveled on purpose.
So, instead of elbowing my way through cherry blossom mayhem, I laced up my platform sneakers and flitted over to Oxon Run Park, where the cherry trees bloom in peace and quiet. My kite? A silk Japanese butterfly confection in neon pink with gold-tipped wings. My ensemble? Just enough Harajuku to make the average skeptic think pink. There, floating between sky and sidewalk, I remembered why I fly kites in the first place: to release stress, silence doubt, and forget—if only for a moment—that I still haven’t responded to the VSIP or VERA email. Take the path less traveled, darling—especially if it has 200 cherry trees and not a tourist in sight. With altitude and attitude, Simone Butterfly xoxo P.S. If you are free on Sunday, see the people's cherry blossoms for yourself. Oxon Run (in Ward 8) hosts a Pinknic & Kite Fly on April 6, 2025 at Valley Ave SE & Wheeler Rd SE by the Basketball Courts.  While the glitterati sip champagne at the Vogue Vintage Market, I opted for a humbler quest—a pilgrimage to 2nd Avenue Thrift Superstore in Laurel.
The spoils? Select speeches by Malcolm X, a few Washington Informer newspapers chronicling the '68 riots, a wooden Afro pick, a Betty Davis vinyl, and a pink and green cotton dashiki. Freedom on a budget? That is the only way to live. Keep your hoop earrings large, Simone Butterfly xoxo P.S. The dashiki is vintage Versace. You gotta play to win.  Wondering why I’m eating a forkful of applesauce cake sans eggs—it’s called survival. Sometimes, you just need to sit down, grab a fork, and indulge.
Welcome to YHD, your monthly slice of sparkle and levity in a city that’s equal parts hustle and charm. Whether you’re dodging Metro delays or trying to squeeze in a Smithsonian visit during lunch, consider this your personal survival guide. And because we all need a moment to reset, each edition will feature a Sunday Pause with Simone—thoughtful essays to help you refocus on what's important. Plus, we will share details about our newest episode of Ask Your AunTea podcast, a weekly podcast hosted by my BFF, Mariessa Terrell. Now—about those excess forks circulating around the District. Why not put them to good use? Eat cake. Share cake. Be the cake, Simone Butterfly xoxo  Yoo Hoo Darling, I’ll admit it—I was tempted to tell everyone I’d been in the Alps perfecting my yodel, but the truth is, I spent the last month at a meditation retreat in the Bronx. Yes, the Bronx. Because sometimes, even I am obliged to pause the drama and focus on the Dharma. Om shanti, darling.
Now, it’s Valentine’s Day, and I’m back in DC with $55, no date, and a worsening dairy allergy. Tragic, I know. But like girls around the world, reinvention is in my DNA. So here’s the plan: First stop: the National Botanical Garden. No need to actually buy flowers when the peonies there are practically couture. A dozen IG shares later, I had made my point…flower power is free if you know where to get it. Next, I flitted over to the Aveda Institute in Arlington for a $35 facial. Student technicians may be in training, but they understand the universal plight of not having quite enough to splurge. Thanks for the samples, dolls. For bubbles, I popped open my emergency bottle of TÖST, a non alcoholic option that costs $6.73. If it’s good enough for the Ivy in B’more it is good enough for me. Back at the DollHouse, I bathed in LushUSA ($8) and slid on my sweatshirt, a pink confection from a Canadian reseller on Etsy. I carefully painted my lips Kabuki red with Geisha stage lip lacquer by Shiseido. Divine, and absolutely impossible to find in the US. With nowhere particular to be, I decided to stage a mini concert for anyone else alone (not lonely) in the DMV. If you can’t do, prepare to. It's getting hectic out there. Best to be shellacked for the show down, darling.  It’s 3 days after Christmas and I’ve been flitting all around the house, gathering supplies for my epic layabout. The fireplace is crackling and sputtering with glee. And I, in my StuWeitzmans, am feeling qulte co-zy Why? It’s almost New Years, and I’m surrounded by my fav things: almond tea, Skinny Pop, and a mound of vintage couture in various stages of repair. Sip, snip, pull, pause, repeat. My mantra hasn’t really changed. Creating a life worth living requires Diana Ross level grit & glam. In 2024 find me at the DollHouse with yards of skirt, discounted champagne, and an epic story to tell.   5 shades of grey striped pantsuit by Norma Kamali & vintage velvet hat c/o Uesa Vintage I think it was Angie that first put the idea in my head. Choir practice for the 175th Anniversary of Second Baptist had ended and we were making our way downstairs to wait on her Lyft and my Uber.
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May 2025
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