I've been studying how people dress since I was 14. Not in classrooms, on subway platforms, in vintage shops, at gallery openings. I watched how a belt could change a silhouette. How one piece of jewelry could shift the entire energy of an outfit.

I wanted to go to fashion school. I studied business instead. So I learned the industry from the inside. Wholesale operations, production runs, margins, shortcuts. I learned what things actually cost to make well and what brands chose not to spend. I learned what lasted.

Leather belts never fit me. I punched extra holes into every one I owned. They stretched. They cracked. They sat wrong on the body in a way I couldn't fix, only tolerate.

Then I found one at a Brooklyn thrift store. A simple gold vintage chain, cold in my hand. I fastened it. It fit.

I wore it that day over denim. Then over a blazer. Then long from the collarbone as a necklace. It didn't fit my body. It adapted to it. That moment became the blueprint.

I started collecting them. Flea markets, Goodwill, the back bins at vintage shops off the L train. But the good ones broke. The new ones were decorative. Lightweight, flimsy, designed to look like they functioned without actually doing it.

So I made the version I couldn’t find. Genderless chain belts, made in Brooklyn from recycled stainless steel. Substantial. Adjustable. Strong enough to hold up pants.

Durable, skin-safe, tarnish-resistant. Weighted enough to anchor fabric. Built to change the line of an outfit without announcing itself.

I didn't know if anyone else needed this. I just knew I did.

It turns out a lot of people have been punching extra holes.

Welcome to Lapo Lounge.

— Opal