Oona Origins
When I was little, I had a nanny named Patience who repeated the same two rules over and over again until they became fully ingrained. Number one—no cooking in roller skates. And number two—no sleeping in leotards. The latter evolved over time to include swimsuits, and the former I grew out of due to a lack of interest in cooking on wheels. Between ballet, gymnastics, cheer, and the Texas preteen predilection for languishing and loitering near a pool, the majority of my adolescence was spent changing either in or out of lycra. And there was nothing I loved more than the pageantry of costume.
Around the age of four, I woke up every morning for months and put on an iridescent pink leotard to rip cartwheels in the living room, throwing a fit when I wasn't allowed to wear it to school. I remember getting my first bikini in fifth grade at Just Add Water, which was in the same shopping center as the divorce court therapist. I am sure I said something manipulative to get that purple polka-dotted number that I crafted an entire personality around for a whole summer. Totally worth it to strut into all-girls pool parties with the only exposed belly button.
One of the earliest rituals I remember making me feel incredibly cool and adult was the streetwear-to-dancewear pipeline—arriving at the studio in one ensemble and leaving in another. My personal style included ballet tights, a high-neck leotard high on the hip, sweatpants half a size too big, pale pink nylon-clad hip bone protruding, a ripped t-shirt draped off the shoulder—a look that said, "Have you heard Fiona Apple's newest album?" You know a 7/11 parking lot hated to see me coming. I've always loved an outfit that hints at an impending activity.
Through all of these phases, Patience's justification for forcing me out of my leotards haunted me: "Hailey, you'll suffocate your noonie, and it'll get sick if you wear a leotard too long." I have lived in fear of suffocating my vagina into illness ever since.
A 7-Eleven in Fort Worth in 1952. Photo taken by W.D. Smith, courtesy of the Portal to Texas History. - caption and image stolen from Texashighways.com - who knew?
I'm only half embarrassed to admit most summers in my twenties were spent cramped into a share house in Amagansett with an outrageous number of other people. Did Uber exist then? I don't even know, but I do know we were typically at the mercy of one car, making the beach day-to-night game essential. A beach bag wasn't complete without a full change of clothes, just in case. These were the Sienna Miller/Mary-Kate Olsen days, when I was always trying to cultivate a look that conveyed shipwreck victim just washed up on land, yet chic. So it wasn't much of a chore. My beach bag always had a swimsuit for swimming and a swimsuit for styling, the importance of feminine hygiene ever present.
In 2021, during what I like to call "the Great Covid Hobby Revival," I abandoned my New York City life to move to a small town in El Salvador to learn to surf. For five months, I whiled away my days in surf suits, bikinis, and workout sets—changing from one beach outfit to another anytime I got wet. Just a steady rotation of lycra ensembles. There were a lot of new experiences unique to living in a place with about forty people, one paved road, and temperamental Wi-Fi that seemed to work only on one side of the river or the other, so we were often running barefoot across hotter-than-hell black sand, devices in hand, trying to find a signal.
However, the one thing that really stuck out to me—something I don't think I'd experienced since ballet camp or boarding school—was the constant stream of girls in the throes of an antibiotic protocol trying to address vaginal health issues. And listen, I'm not a prude—there are, of course, other contributing factors—but I do believe some of my compadres weren't letting their britneys breathe.
Another thing I noticed gained in popularity and spread like wildfire, infiltrating the beach towns' agreed-upon aesthetic, was the night suit. I'm looking at you, Costa Rica. The early-aughts styling resurgence of see-through crochet and mesh outfits that require undergarments appropriate for public consumption—which typically leans swimsuit—hit a fever pitch over the last couple of years. Let me be clear: I think it's a sign of intelligence to dress appropriately for the weather, and with temps soaring into the 90s, I'd respect the choice to wear a tissue. However, heeding Patience's warning, I still have a strict three-hour max in a swimsuit, and as I close out my 30s, there's something about wearing a bikini off the beach that makes me feel disheveled and out of place. So, in order to participate in these trends—and I love to dabble in a trend—I made the Cottini.
The idea was born out of necessity. Earlier this year, I did a stint between Bondi and Byron Bay with my friend @madlyvintage, who has the dopest collection of vintage crochet and Y2K sheer dresses you've ever seen. I cannot recommend traveling with a vintage dealer more—I've never laughed harder or been better dressed. However, half of her stuff required undergarments that I just didn't have. I personally don't feel comfortable in shapewear, and if my underwear is going to be seen, I want it to be clear that I know you can see them.
My greatest fear in developing any product is contributing to waste. Luckily, a friend was able to connect me with a predominantly female-run operation in Bali whose ethos aligned with mine. I was fortunate enough to partner with people who share my beliefs and worked with me to produce a small, limited run of designs made from ethically sourced materials.
Cottinis are meant, aesthetically speaking, to be interchangeable with a bikini, but are made of 100% naturally dyed cotton for a sleek, breathable look. I also made bloomers and ruched little shorts for when you want to go commando, or when you just want a little more coverage at the beach. Designed to be functional for the piercing heat of a Central American beach town, but cute enough to blend in on the cobblestone streets of more tailored European escapes.
Over the course of the last five years, I've been bopping all over the globe, so every item of clothing I bought or brought had to justify itself to earn a place among the rest of my belongings. Multi-use and multi-wear items reign supreme.
Every piece in the first Oona collection was made to be worn at the beach or in the street. The Frankie and Freddie dresses were originally called the Pizza for Lunch and the Pasta for Lunch dresses, respectively. The hidden ties are meant for cinching the waist during lighter morning strolls to the beach or the pool, and the hidden loop holes were created so you can tuck those waist straps in and feast in peace, knowing that your chosen attire doubles as a tent. The Haru pants were inspired by a pair of karate pants I got from a Danish skatepark designer. For two years, they were the pants I wore to the airport, to bed, to concerts, and after an evening surf on a windy beach. Heck, I'm pretty sure I went to visit surf Jesus in the Biarritz church wearing them. But they didn't have pockets—so I made some with western-style patch pockets.
Oona is just a name that I've been carrying around, and these are pieces I wanted to exist. The rest came from living in these clothes, traveling in them, and wanting fewer things that did more. The collection reflects that instinct—designed to be worn, reworn, and lived in, wherever you happen to be.