On Fuzz: A Mandate, Not a Suggestion, and Certainly Not a Conversation
I have been asked, repeatedly and by people who should know better, to justify fuzz. I have been asked to explain it, to contextualize it, to present it as one valid option among many. I will not. Fuzz is not a preference. Fuzz is a requirement, and if you are arriving anywhere — a council, a press briefing, a casual Tuesday — without it, you have already made a decision about yourself, and that decision is wrong.
The texture is the garment. This is the foundational principle of fruit couture, and it has been understood by every correctly-dressed surface since before the so-called workers at that rival rag learned to express an opinion about anything. A smooth exterior does not say confidence. It says I have nothing between myself and the world and I am fine with that, which is not fine, and is, frankly, a cry for help dressed up as a aesthetic choice.
Kiwi, for instance. I have watched Kiwi arrive at public-facing events with that dense, bristled coat and thought: yes, finally, someone who understands the assignment. And then Kiwi opens their mouth and the illusion collapses entirely. But the texture was correct. I am capable of separating these things.
Contrast this with the so-called workers Lime and Lemon, who have been photographed — if one can call it that — attending editorial functions in nothing but their own naked, waxy rinds. The audacity. The gleam. Pomelo, my colleague, has described Lemon's exterior as "architectural." Pomelo is being generous. I am not. Wax is what you apply to furniture. It is not a look.
Fuzz softens nothing. It announces everything. It tells the room: I have considered my surface, I have cultivated it, and I have arrived. The smooth fruits of factjuice.com have not arrived. They have merely appeared, which is a very different thing, and one I intend to keep writing about until someone there does something about it.