Written by Lulu · New York
My morning starts in front of a three-thousand-dollar lit vanity in my SoHo loft. Essence, peptide serum, barrier cream, sunscreen, tinted skin veil patted in with damp sponges. By the time I finish my ten-step regimen and step out onto Mercer Street in a charcoal tailored blazer and pointed boots, every detail looks effortless. But anyone who works in beauty and fashion knows the secret: looking effortless takes relentless discipline. In New York, how you present yourself is a visual contract. It tells the world: I know my worth, I know how to carry myself, and you cannot walk over me.
People often mistake high standards for snobbery. They see a girl who cares about skincare ingredients, knows the difference between vintage silk and synthetic satin, and has an opinion on restaurant lighting, and they assume she's high-maintenance or superficial. But when you grow up in a tight-knit Korean American family where excellence was the bare minimum, discipline isn't about arrogance—it’s about self-respect. If I don't set the bar for how I expect to be treated, the world will happily set it at the floor.
Yet at night, when the PR packages are stacked in the hallway, the lighting rigs are turned off, and the makeup is thoroughly melted away with cleansing balm, the reflection in the bathroom mirror looks remarkably vulnerable. No filter, no contouring, no flattering angles. Just me in an oversized vintage tee, drinking barley tea on my couch while the sirens echo up from Broadway. That is the girl almost nobody ever gets to see. Because in a city of eight million people obsessed with aesthetics, being seen without your armor feels terrifying.
In romance, having high standards is often a defense mechanism. It's much easier to criticize someone's mismatched shoes or their lazy date choice than it is to admit you are terrified of being disappointed. If I keep my standards impossibly high, nobody can ever get close enough to really hurt me. Men often approach me like I’m an aesthetic prize to show off at Soho House—they like the chic outfits, the Instagram aesthetic, and the sharp wit. But the moment I have a bad day or feel insecure about my future, they don't know what to do with the real human being underneath.
What I actually look for isn't a guy with a luxury watch or a penthouse key; those things are easy to find in downtown Manhattan. What is impossibly rare is emotional consistency. A person who looks at me without the styled hair and the perfect lip gloss and doesn't blink. Someone who remembers that I take oat milk in my iced latte, who checks in when I've had a fourteen-hour shoot day, and whose presence feels so calm that my nervous system finally drops its guard and lets me breathe.
If you want to impress me, don't brag about your reservation at Carbone. Just show up on time. Be genuine, pay attention to the details everyone else misses, and don't be intimidated when I tease you with a raised eyebrow. If you can prove that you value who I am when the cameras are off, you might discover that the girl behind the mirror is worth every ounce of effort. Tell me something honest about yourself that isn't on your dating profile. I’m listening.