BEVERLY HILLS, CA – DECEMBER 16: Jennifer Lopez is seen on December 16, 2020 in Beverly Hills, California. (Photo by APEX/MEGA/GC Images)
On Wednesday, Jennifer Lopez was seen in Beverly Hills wearing the ultimate pandemic-era look: a silk, monochrome pajama-like set paired with a linen face mask adorned with a dainty gold chain. Her blush pink two-piece included a collared, button-down shirt, which she tucked into a pair of matching, wide-leg trousers. She topped off the look with white sneakers and a coordinating pink coat. But while we’ll always appreciate a luxury party pajamas moment from the Hustlers star, it was her face mask — to be exact, its accompanying mask chain — that stole the show.
The face covering, called the Tina mask, was designed by Latina designer Karen Perez, who launched her brand Second Wind in response to the pandemic. Perez is known for the unique shape of her linen and silk masks, many of which come with removable leashes — ranging from Cuban link chains to thicker lucite and marble chains. In response to seeing Lopez wearing her mask, Perez shared a photo of her on Instagram, thanking the singer and actress for supporting her small business.
Second Wind isn’t the only brand designing fashion-forward attachments for 2020’s most essential accessory. This year, many designers have taken to designing stylish face masks, as well as accessories for them, ranging from scrunchie-like ties and bows (think: Collina Strada and KkCo) to beaded styles designed to be worn on top of more protective masks. But of all the face mask accoutrements crafted this year, chains like Perez’s are the most sought after, with other Instagram brands like éliou and Donni also offering stylish leashes of their own.
Below, shop Lopez’s exact Second Wind mask and chain duo, as well as some of our other favorite mask accessories.
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For as long as I can remember, I’ve had a dressing-up box. As a child with a penchant for playing dress-up, it was a pretty standard affair: a white wooden box filled with striped T-shirts for piratical purposes, and twinkly black nylon and pointed hats for witchy occasions. More princess-style garb came courtesy of the occasional dress my Alaska-dwelling grandmother brought over to the U.K. each year when she came to visit. These were often red, featuring devoré roses or frilly sleeves.
When pretending to be orphans (a perennial favorite for anyone who grows up reading, well, any children’s literature, but especially Frances Hodgson Burnett’s The Secret Garden or Eva Ibbotson’s Journey to The River Sea), there were haphazardly dyed tops and rag skirts from my parents’ hippyish pre-children days. In fact, my mother, an ex drama teacher, kept the dressing-up box very well stocked — costumes and masks from school productions and scarves in pink, blue, and yellow from local market stalls joining the hats and eye-patches.
As a teenager, this box morphed into a drawer — though at that age I probably could have counted my whole wardrobe as one big dressing-up project, given my taste for splashy ‘60s cocktail frocks and faux fur. Slowly though, this drawer filled up with an especially gaudy collection of flotsam: sparkly dresses, capes, plastic beads, fake flowers, hideous wigs, and netting underskirts with sagging elastic at the waistline. It was the kind of place where ripped ‘30s gowns, fabric faded like pressed flowers, were squished in on top of metallic American Apparel leggings that made one look like a scaly, slightly rainbow-tinted lizard. Value and age mattered much less than potential. All I cared about was the effect, merrily veering between garments befitting teenage ravers and slightly down at heel stars of the silent screen.
Come the festive season I put this drawer to especially good use. In our Czech-English household where we celebrated on both Christmas Eve and Day, there was always a sense of occasion to dress for. One year I wore a bright red-and-white polka dot jumpsuit with hems so long they required towering heels. In another, I emulated the tree in a dress covered in big, gold paillettes the size of coins, the style making a shushing sound like waves raking over pebbles whenever I moved (and leaving imprints on the backs of my legs if I tried to sit down). Other forms of festivity got the same treatment. Aged 17, I turned up at a friend’s party clad head-to-toe in silver, from my lurex vest and my beaded shoes to my false eyelashes and the gleaming metal braces wired over my gappy front teeth.
Holidays aside and up until the point of going to university, my main dressing up domain though was my bedroom. In my later teens, the sequins had occasional showings at parties or festivals (I dread to think of the photos of me in a bottle green tutu with slashes of glitter across my cheeks lurking somewhere out there), but much of what I owned didn’t stray very far. Sure, I dressed up with mates and wore those horribly sticky silver eyelashes to dance in my friend’s kitchen, but these sporadic experiences were outweighed by the more private motions of trialing outfits and appraising the sartorial outcome in my dressing table mirror.
I often found dressing up safest at home anyway. More than safe. Exhilarating. With my bedroom door closed, I was free to experiment, flinging on turquoise feather hats and opera gloves, daubing eye shadow up to my brows, trying on dress after dress until the floor around me was a sea of turquoise rayon, white lace, and watery washed silk. I pulled things on and off, tied my belts in knots, staggered across my carpet in platform heels, and generally made a fuss (and a mess) until I felt like I’d satisfied this particular, itching urge.
Even now I’m not sure how to characterize that desire to dress up for me. I know it partly came from a general sense of outsiderishness that was perhaps satisfied when the reflection looking back confirmed this feeling of difference. I also know I took a simple, magpie-like pleasure in the acquisition of beautiful garments. There was a very child-like, imaginative streak to it, too — the expansive sense of play that came in flinging on a cape and some lipstick, or deliberating over what colors and proportions complemented each other when it came to the careful layering of silk slips or mint mini-dresses. I like the sense of changeability, perhaps seeing it as a promise that one’s sense of self — visual or otherwise — was never fixed.
I have thought a lot about these teenage dress-up sessions recently. The pandemic has turned us into backward-facing people, raking over past experiences or watching them rise to the surface in lieu of the usual stack of the new sensations and people and places that make up a normal year’s worth of new memories. I suppose, too, that I’ve found myself contemplating this rather solitary activity for more immediate reasons. Right now it feels not just memorable but proximate.
As an adult, my dressing-up box was no longer confined to what was reflected in the oval frame of my bedroom mirror. Instead, its contents got regular outings. Friends came over for dinner and pulled on ballgowns afterward. I delved into it for last-minute garb for club nights and parties (tip: a necklace made out of plastic bugs is incredibly handy for any Surrealism-themed ‘do, especially when pinned into one’s hair with a black veil over the top). I relished the sociable dimensions of dressing and dressing up: the methodical rituals of getting ready, the final outfit checks, the fun of being on public transport in something that made other people’s heads swivel. I enjoyed seeing and being seen, my clothes forming part of a wider conversation and back-and-forth traffic of glances with those around me.
This year there has been very little of that. No complimenting of stranger’s inventive outfits. Not much reason to buy new, extravagant items, or spend hours weighing up the best silhouette for an event. Have I still enjoyed dressing? Absolutely. But have my attentions also been largely focused on which shirt and knitted tank top combination goes best with my relentlessly worn jeans? Yes. In a way, this has been liberating. Day-to-day, I’ve been able to accept clothes as something providing function and comfort, not just pleasure. Perhaps, in caring less, I’ve felt more at ease.
Still, as the year has worn on, this has been undercut by another feeling. A restless one. After a summer of linen smocks and loose cotton shirts, I’ve spent much of autumn and winter yearning for glamour. Not just glamour. Irreverence. Silliness. Lavish fabrics. I’ve found myself saving endless pictures to my phone of Bianca Jagger at Studio 54, Liza Minnelli in scarlet spangled jumpsuits, Kate Bush wearing quilted gold dresses, Diana Ross in feathers, the dancer Michael Clark in a beret and glam rock platform boots, and Tom Ford-era Gucci velvet tuxedos with natty little neck scarves.
With the festive season approaching, and no holiday parties to go to, I’ve also begun drifting back toward my own dressing-up box, too, pulling things out for the sake of it. I have rehabilitated my hideous Jean Paul-Gaultier jeans found in a thrift shop that look like someone threw up a kaleidoscope on them, and rediscovered an orange, rhinestone speckled dress that would be perfect for Dolly Parton impersonations. I have bought semi-ridiculous things on eBay like a lime green suede Donna Karan belt with a huge gold buckle (though sadly the red satin Miu Miu trousers got away). I feel like I am back in my teenage bedroom, twirling for the mirror as I take photos on my phone.
This is the spirit I want to maintain this Christmas and New Year. Regardless of social opportunity, I’ve realized that there is something both reassuring and profoundly uplifting in being able to look like a human disco ball or a green velvet-clad tree, even if the only people to appreciate the effect IRL are my girlfriend and cats. This is meant to be the season of kitsch sparkle and uncomfortable footwear. Regardless of the fact that there are very few places to wear my finery to this year, I want to maintain that same sense of relish for both the fun and unruliness of dress that I had before. Parties and bars and the conviviality of a packed, noisy room might be off-limits, but I’ve realized that the tactile pleasure is all still there, now folded away in a clear, Perspex box full of sequins, satin coats, ruffled shirts, and seventies gowns with sweeping sleeves, always ready to be spun around a bedroom or paraded through the kitchen once more.
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Warning:This story contains spoilers for The Flight Attendant on HBO Max.
On Thursday, HBO Max released the final episode of its new thriller The Flight Attendant, starring Kaley Cuoco and Rosie Perez. In addition to a slew of outerwear, Cuoco’s character Cassie wears an item in the penultimate episode that’s close to both tourists and native New Yorkers’ hearts: an “I Love New York” hoodie. While the beginning of the season shows Cassie in bright colors and vibrant patterns, as her life begins to unravel — and she realizes she could be either arrested for murder or murdered herself — her fashion choices become more casual and subdued. Her collection of Saint Laurent coats and Gucci skirts falls away, only to be replaced with an item bought in a tourist shop. And, like the whirlwind storyline, the hoodie also has an unexpected backstory.
“We needed an outfit change — something that Cassie could’ve bought off the street — otherwise, she’d be in the same clothes forever,” Cat Thomas, the costume designer for the series, tells Refinery29. The cast had just recently returned to filming after lockdown, bringing Thomas and the rest of the crew back to New York. (Production shut down in March due to COVID-19, before picking back up for the final two episodes in August.) Upon their return, a solution to her sartorial roadblock came to her: “I love this city so much, so [an ‘I Love New York’ sweatshirt] felt like the perfect fit.” That is, until another problem arose in the form of clearance required to feature the hoodie.
According to Thomas, in order for them to include it in the show, they needed permission from New York’s Governor Andrew Cuomo. Yes, it’s mandatory. “Since it was one of those last-minute additions, Kaley and I came to the realization late. We were talking about adding [the hoodie,] and I was like, ‘Oh god, Kaley, we have to actually clear this!’” But, as if the ghost of Alex Sokolov (Michiel Huisman), who plays Cassie’s deceased confidant throughout the season, was sending luck from the after life, another solution arose.
According to Thomas, Perez, who plays Megan on the show, is a huge supporter of Cuomo and knows him personally. “I went to Rosie and begged. I was literally like, ‘I know you know Cuomo. I know you can get it through. If anyone can do it, you can!’ And she was immediately like, ‘I’m on it!’” Somehow, the plan actually worked. “He called from his office to get it cleared for the next day.”
“We were one of the first productions back up after COVID, so we all cried together because [the piece] is such a symbol — it made us all really happy and proud,” Thomas recalls. “It felt like it was meant to be.”
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After you’ve survived a long night of eating your favorite holiday side dishes, navigating family politics, and the inevitable exhaustion that comes from holiday festivities, the day after should be devoted to relaxation and recovery. While you may have gotten dressed up for your dinner, we believe that the day after any holiday should be strictly reserved for cozy sartorial choices and we’ve found 28 options for you to spend the whole long weekend in.
That’s right — we’re talking elasticated waistbands, super-soft knits, and the cutest joggers. Whether you still want to look presentable while running errands in knitted trousers, or plan to eat leftovers on the couch, make comfort a priority since you are now in official holiday season territory. Bonus points on investing in a pair you love, because we think this athletic stretchy waistband style would look rather becoming with a blazer and boots. No matter what you're up to — or even if you're up to nothing at all — breaking out the loungewear is a trend you deserve.
At Refinery29, we’re here to help you navigate this overwhelming world of stuff. All of our market picks are independently selected and curated by the editorial team, but if you buy something we link to on our site, Refinery29 may earn commission.
FIND ME NOW Dale Ribbed Pant, $, available at Lisa Says Gah
Madewell Huston Pull-On Full-Length Pants, $, available at Madewell
Adidas Paolina Russo Track Pants, $, available at Adidas
Juicy Couture Velour Track Pants, $, available at Nordstrom
Nasty Gal Take Slit in Your Stride Wide-Leg Joggers, $, available at Nasty Gal
