Everywhere else gets a red heart. California gets a brown one, because that is the exact color of every hillside from May through November. They call it the Golden State, which is a very generous way of saying the grass died in April and nobody has watered a lawn since. Our hills are crunchy, our rivers are suggestions, and we still charge four grand a month for a studio with a view of them.
Brown is also the oat milk cold brew, the carne asada off a truck at one in the morning, the tan line from sitting in traffic with one arm out the window, and the avocado you forgot about for a day and a half. If that is not love, nothing is. Wear it ironically, wear it sincerely, nobody out here can tell the difference anyway.
Cut from soft, breathable fabric with a relaxed drape that holds its shape through beach mornings and foggy nights. Durable stitching and a print that will not crack before the next drought.
