The evidence dates back to 1974. I was two and a half years old and my father was carrying me on his shoulders as he and my mom strolled Worth Avenue, the Rodeo Drive of Palm Beach, Florida. The sun rays poured onto storefronts like gleaming spotlights, beckoning passersby to enter and find the holy grail. We made our way up a small hill, and suddenly I saw it: the mother ship. It was gorgeous. A sleek black structure with crystal-clear glass and milky-white mannequins wearing disco confections of velvet and fur. Epiphany struck! I swear, I thought I heard the Star Wars theme song as I proudly yelled at the top of my teeny lungs, “Look, Mommy! G-U-C-C-I! Gucci!” It was the first word I read. “We’re in trouble,” my father huffed. “Is it too late to return her?”
My mom—chic in the ’60s, ’70s, ’80s, ’90s, and even on the ski slopes!
Forever Beautiful
MELISSA
I grew up in Manila, where my father headed his own investment bank and my mother was a well-photographed socialite. Her sizable walk-in closet had its own air conditioner. As a child I spent many afternoons there among her treasure trove of Yves Saint Laurent tunics, Oleg Cassini shifts, Valentino silk dresses, and Charles Jourdan shoes. My mother had women who visited her at home to give her facials, manicures, and pedicures, and a personal seamstress who masterfully re-created whatever outfit Jackie O was wearing that year (Mommy was big into Jackie O).
My mother never lets a day go by without wearing makeup. She is always impeccably coiffed and perfectly powdered. She revels in being feminine, and taught me it was my duty as a woman to always try to be pretty. (She still chastises my sister and me for not dressing up enough for when our husbands come home. We always complain she’s so old-fashioned, but my husband said he would actually really appreciate it if I looked nice all the time.) She had an accounting degree and a successful career as a banker, but she never thought making it in a man’s world meant giving up interest in your looks. In fact, she cultivated it. From my mom I learned to buy shoes I liked in every color (when you find a shape that fits you, invest!), and the power of a signature look. Friends and relatives from the Philippines still call capri pants “Ching’s pants” because she always wore them in a variety of hues with four-inch heels.
She had a closet full of the best mules, and when I was twenty-one I was lucky enough to have been given a pair of her gold-heeled sexy strap sandals. (The sandals had two straps at the toe, and the ankle strap was a gold rubberized fabric that just looped around the ankle.) I never got as many compliments as I did when I wore those shoes. Men would fall at my feet. When the shoes broke in half, I took them to a cobbler to try to get them repaired. When I was told they were not salvageable, I felt like I had lost something special and irreplaceable. I’m still in mourning.
One of my fondest memories of our life in Manila is of my mother on her way out for the evening. She wafted down the staircase smelling of Diorrissimo, dripping with emerald and diamond jewelry. Her hair was perfectly set, and her high heels clicked on the marble floor. She was wearing a black silk blouse, a colorful tiered gypsy skirt, and a wide, elaborate, gold braided belt. I had some fifth-grade classmates over for a sleepover, and the group of girls stared at my mother as she came to kiss me good-bye. Manila society was very conservative back then—and my mother’s outfit was one my friends had never seen before. I was apprehensive about their opinions.
“Wow” one of them breathed. “Your mom dresses soooo cool.” The verdict was in. Fashion had won them over. And I’ve been trying to live up to that ever since.
Take it from us: A fashionista may be born, but she is also self-made. It has taken us years to develop our personal styles and find our fashionista niches. We’ve traded in our suburban past (yes, we both had a penchant for big hair, leg warmers, and acid-wash jeans) for fashionista sophistication (flatter hair, high heels, and dry-clean-only denim). To this day, we can accurately recount what we wore every first day of school. We curate our looks, right down to the “studied casual” sweats we wear when running out to get the dry cleaning. We catalog our memories and nights out by the ensembles we donned. (“Let’s see . . . when did I meet him? Well, I was wearing a vintage strapless three-tiered ruffle minidress with a trailing scarf. So it must have been the summer of 2001.”)
We still ransack our mothers’ closets and have a sick habit of rationalizing our over-the-top, paycheck-busting purchases by saying, “It’s for our daughters—someday.” While we have both weathered (and endured) our fair share of ugly phases, too many “don’ts” to recall, overdoses of hairspray, and heavy black liquid eyeliner (!!!), we have always been enchanted by high fashion, fantastic indulgences, and the stylish trends by which the world turns. (Just ask our accountants!)
The moral of our stories: We have a weakness for style. All kinds of style: ladylike femme, power-suit-wearing mogul, masculine chic, edgy rocker chick, ghetto fabulous, nouveau hippie, contemporary cowgirl, space-age mod, grunge girl, prim preppy, bondage sexpot. We can’t recall a single time we’ve hung out together without asking each other what we’re wearing, where we bought it, and how soon we can borrow it. We’ve even discovered that we both own some of the same ridiculous things. We tear through magazines and fantasize about being able to have one piece from each different fashion spread—and we take this task so seriously, we even debate the advantages and disadvantages of each item. We even like to guess what we’d each want. We shop and put things on hold for each other and have been known to call each other at the eleventh hour before appointments, screeching, “What are you wearing? What should I wear? Should we both wear our white button-down Victorian shirts?”
We cherish fishnets and fedoras (such a chic combination), live beyond our means (ah, the life of a glamour girl), and own many, many pairs of shoes (you know the saying: You can never be too rich—or have too many pairs of shoes). We worship at the altars of Manolo Blahnik, Balenciaga, and Tom Ford, but are not afraid to go crazy in Tar-zjay (a.k.a. Target, but we like to use the French pronunciation) and Marshalls. Fashion. It is our passion. It is our obsession. It is our lives!
This tome will give you a fierce foray into the way of the fashionista. It’s part memoir, full of our tales of fashion flops and feats, crashes and coups; and part self-help, packed with the kinds of tips that will help you to lead a life more fabulous. In our pages, you will find all the tools of the fashionista trade, everything you ever wanted to know about realizing your fashionista identity, building your closet from Gap to Gucci, shopping mantras to swear by, unleashing your inner couturier, beautifying to perfection, learning the proper jargon and vernacular, financing your haute habits, embracing the fashionista culture (icons, muses, designers of the past, films, books, and more—my, my, you have your work cut out for you), navigating the nightlife, and understanding the world of fashion shows and catwalk queens.
So strap on your stilettos and work it, girl.
CHAPTER 1
Êtes-Vous Fashionista?
Mais Oui!
If you have ever affected a British accent . . .
If you have ever spent a sleepless night worrying about the health of Marc Jacobs . . .
If you greet friends by kissing them on both cheeks (and you are not European) . . .
If you have ever sacrificed eating in order to shop . . .
If you have ever blown a paycheck on a pair of jeans . . .
If the only McCartney you are familiar with is Stella . . .
If your Visa bill is higher than your rent . . .
If you refer to designers by their first names in conversation (although you are not on a first-name basis with them) . . .
If you pester the mailman for your latest copy of Vogue, Harper’s Bazaar, and W ...
If you have absolutely nothing to wear (but your closet would heartily disagree) . . .
If you are usually late just because you just can’t figure out what to put on your body . . .
Then you, my friend, are a fashionista. And there is no turning back no
w.
(Turn the page instead!)
LIFE IN THE “FASH” LANE
Welcome to the world of four-inch heels, four-ply cashmere, and four-dollar vintage dresses. Fashionistas will do anything to score the latest, the most obscure, the most absurd, the right-off-the-runway, the trendiest, the most expensive, the least expensive, the showstopper, the uniform, the marabou, the canvas, the nylon, the silk, the leather, the suede, the velvet, the tweed, the transparent, the ostrich feathers. We are a picky and difficult breed, with closets full of shredded tulle (but it’s a Galliano!) and whalebone silk corsets (but it’s a Gaultier!). We shop too much, eat too little, and sleep too late.
Our lives are often punctuated by sample sales and trunk shows, sometimes interrupted by phone calls from irate creditors, and always filled with overstuffed dry-cleaning bags on our living room floors. We experience dizziness when confronted by a supremely fabulous piece of clothing (it’s called Balenciaga fever), and we have trouble sleeping if we don’t have the right handbag for the season.
While we lust over the latest Parisian couture ball gowns, we also know the perils of head-to-toe designer, and we swoon when we see a well-dressed woman in a thrift-store jacket that may have served as the inspiration for Karl Lagerfeld’s latest collection. We cheer when we score Dolce & Gabbana for 90 percent off! And sometimes we revel in retail (but shhhh, we’re not proud of it). If it’s impractical, theatrical, patterned, feathered, fur trimmed, and uncomfortable, you can bet it’s hanging in our closet.
What we typically don’t own: tailored classics, penny loafers, cable-knit sweaters (unless of course they’ve been shrunk, dyed, and somehow distressed, or are an intrinsic part of our ironic preppy phase). We live and die for our shoes. (They cost us a small fortune, after all.) And we’ll take our favorite must-haves to our graves.
Some of you may scoff—huh, fashion is just so superficial. We have to say, it is. But it also isn’t. Fashion is a part of life, something we need to protect our bodies from the cold and the radical agents that pollute the air (thank you, Alexander McQueen, for making such a mundane task look so damn good). It is also a form of art, self-expression, and a representation of more emotional roots. Fashion evokes a mental response from its appreciators. It can make us weep and make us feel empowered at once. It inspires thought, ideas, and creativity, and whether you shop Wal-Mart or Chanel, chances are we’ve all dealt with the same issues, moments, joys, and frustrations over fashion. Fashion. It does a life some good!
It’s Not What You Can Do for Fashion;
It’s What Fashion Can Do for You
It will cheer you up when you’re feeling blue. Life is hard. Fashion is not. Wear red.
It will transform your attitude and entire spirit. Nothing like a sleek pin-striped suit (with nothing under the jacket) or modern tuxedo with tall, tall heels and an envelope clutch to make you feel in charge. And trust us, you don’t know power until you put on a pair of stiletto motorcycle boots and leather pants—or sexy until you slink into an Agent Provocateur slip and patent leather open-toe Betty Boop pumps.
It will distinguish you from others. Who’s going to forget the person who wears a gorgeous all-white suit with a black silk button-down shirt and striped black-and-white heels to an afternoon wedding, a lace dress and giant fedora to a luncheon, overalls rolled up with high, high heels and a teeny tank top and newsboy cap and great Chanel clutch for a casual Sunday brunch, or a fur jacket with a microminiskirt, knee-high boots, and a whole lot of attitude . . . for no reason at all?
It will give you a reason to go out. What good will a hot little dress do for you if you’re parked on the sofa, reading about what other people are wearing in a magazine and watching how celebrities dress on E! at the same time?
When all else fails, it will give you something to fantasize about. Cavalli wishes and stiletto dreams for all!
It makes you laugh. Just look through some of your old yearbooks for proof.
It represents a moment in time. Proper day dresses with full skirts were fifties. Hippies were sixties. Bell-bottoms were seventies. Big shoulder pads were eighties. We’re still trying to figure out the nineties. And it’s too soon into the aughts to tell.
It provides an excellent and organized way to catalog your memories. “Hmm, I can’t remember when I dated Bryan. Wait. I was really into grunge then. Combat boots, three or four flannel shirts, skullcaps. So it was late 1993, early 1994.”
It helps the economy. Shopping is actually a charitable act in financially hard times. Give back, people!
This chapter will give you insight into our wacky world and break down our species into all the different types of fashionistas (choose a different one to be every day of the week), show you how to make over your mate (men often need so much help), teach you the importance of the almighty gay male best friend (who else will tell you when your butt looks fat without hurting your feelings or secretly being happy that it does?), and present the general rules we live by (rules, however, are made to be broken).
GENUS FASHIONISTA
Now that you’re an acknowledged member of our tribe, figure out what kind of fashionista you are—or want to be. Here are the main subspecies of our breed—and what it takes to become each one:
The Fairy Godmother Fashionista
If your closet is an open house . . . if you share news about the latest sales . . . if you’re always ready to help repair a hem, pick out a bridal gown, or lend your favorite cocktail dress to a friend in need, then you’re everyone’s favorite fashionista—the fairy godmother who expresses her love through fashion’s magic. Your MO is to:
Read Page Six’s gossip in the New York Post ( www.pagesix. com) religiously—celebrity gossip is now a vital part of your existence! Share choice tidbits with your inner circle.
Make sure you put your psychic or astrologer at the top of your speed dial (if you don’t have a mystic clairvoyant, get one, but please avoid hotlines with Dionne Warwick as a spokesperson).
Bring your small, furry dog with you wherever you go. Consider naming it Jean-Claude.
Become best friends with a flaming fashionista, who will love you when you’re at your worst, find your beauty when you’re broken out, and tell you when you’re being crazy, high-maintenance, and incredibly cute in the same sentence.
Laugh at your fashion follies and take risks with your style. The Fairy Godmother Fashionista is fun, bold, brazen, and brash inside and out; she is one of the brave few who can work it in short skirts, stilettos, and bobby socks without looking like a reject from a ZZ Top video.
Live for bargain and thrift-store finds. If you see something your friends—or mom—would like, call them and ask if they’d like you to pick it up for them. You must do unto others, as the saying goes, as you’d like them to do unto you. And organize fashion sale field trips with the girls (and perhaps a pilgrimage to the Prada outlet outside Florence—even if it’s on your honeymoon).
The Fashionista from “Across the Pond”
If you speak with a British accent, whether you grew up in Croydon (where Kate Moss was born on January 16, 1974) or in Michigan (like Madonna, who now speaks like the queen), call strangers “darling” and “love” as a matter of course, and date only shaggy-haired, questionably clean, wanna-be-rock-star types, you’re a fashionista from the other side of the Atlantic. To perfect your schtick:
Pair vintage concert T-shirts (Bowie, KISS, and the Rolling Stones are best—you adore glam rock) with sequins, crystals, and satin for evening.
Revel in nightlife. Never come home before three in the morning. (You girls can sure par-tay.)
Think of dinner as nothing more than a cigarette and a Diet Coke. Breakfast, however, can be hearty: steak and eggs.
Avoid the torture of braces (you’re secretly proud of your crooked teeth).
Add vintage fur to your wardrobe. Wear with denim miniskirts.
Don’t fret over wine stains on your clothes (it only gives them character).
> Invest in a pony-hair handbag instead of a dog (animals are far too much work, as much as you love them). Consider naming it Jean-Claude.
The Boho Fashionista
You never use a blow-dryer. You own a passel of peasant shirts and djellabas. And you are a devout follower of Deepak Chopra, Ashtanga yoga, and power Pilates. You’re a flower-child fashionista! While you always shave your legs, you:
Apply makeup in order to make it look like you don’t. Make sure your lips are glossed at all times.
Wear pigtails, low ponytails, and fresh flowers in your hair.
Embrace Buddhism and say things like, “Oh, I must go home and ‘sage’ to clean off bad energy,” after an encounter with frosty, snobby wicked-witch fashionistas.
Mix expensive Marc Jacobs or Marni pieces with Kmart coups and Birkenstocks.
Consider filmmaking as a career. Try getting Bill Murray to star in your second feature.
Drink cranberry tea and warm water with lemon, and schedule a monthly colonic.
Get a belly-button ring—and a tattoo of the “om” symbol on the small of your back.
Always know when Mercury is in retrograde.
The Wicked-witch Fashionista
If you roll your eyes at knockoffs—even when you’re secretly wearing one—and keep your sunglasses on at all times, even in elevators, you’re the evil genius of the fashionista world. To keep your cold image going, you should:
Hone your social-climbing skills by brushing up on the who’swho list of major socialites and royal players of your town. Befriend these women, if you can arrange it.
Cultivate your ice-queen image by refraining from smiling in order to prevent laugh lines.
Start saving for Botox. At the first sign of a forehead furrow, which can occur by twenty-five years of age, you must dash to your derm.
The Fashionista Files Page 2
