The desert is steady. Unfailing. You can always count on the dry heat, blistering sun and to-die-for vistas of cacti and palm trees. I was born into an Arizona summer. I only make it back about once a year, but every time, it feels more like coming home than the Midwest ever does, despite having been raised in the cornfields and small towns of Illinois. I don’t know why the place we’re born grips us or if it’s just love of the climate that makes it seem that way. Countless authors have tried to put this into words. But of this, I’m certain: I’ll always be wistful for the red rocks of Sedona, where my grandparents lived on the banks of Oak Creek Canyon, the scent of Creosote after a monsoon and dust on the valley winds, and all the mountain ranges my father can call out my name. Home is a puzzle piece in our makeup. Remove it, and the picture doesn’t quite make sense.
On the top is a cotton off-the-shoulder number that I found on clearance in Francesca’s this winter. On the bottom is a pair of light-wash, high-waist BDG girlfriend jeans by Urban Outfitters and faux-leather Merona sandals from Target. For accessories, I donned simple diamond studs and had my niece pluck me two desert flowers and pinned them near my temples with two bobby pins. Arizona’s chlorine-sun combo is like the face mask of my dreams; when my pores are this dry and clear after a day at the pool, I keep my makeup minimal.