Never eat in public (quelle horreur!). Work out—you want your arms to be a little too defined to incite the jealous gaze of your peers. Thrive on the envy of other women.
Become legendary. Abuse your assistant. Make sure she takes down notes for the resultant tell-all best seller. Offer only gracious comments when it’s published. You’ll be even more admired.
Ensure that you are well coiffed and manicured, including eyebrow, lip, and (eek!) chin waxing for all public appearances.
Never leave home without a reservation. If by some foul chance you’re made to wait, cause a stink by stomping your stiletto and name-dropping (make up fabulous-sounding names if need be).
The Quirky Fashionista
If you idolize Björk and think that the Marjan Pejoski swan dress she wore to the Oscars in 2000 was the bomb, wear black turtlenecks under white eyelet summer dresses, pile on smoky eye shadow and don Jeremy Scott’s Venus on a Half Shell swimsuits (a swimsuit with an attached four-foot-tall foam clamshell on the butt), you’re a fashionista on the cutting edge. You don’t care what anyone thinks and you certainly march to the beat of your own drum. Your style:
If you come from an upper-crust home, deny it. If you don’t, act like you do—and then deny any wealthy, worldly beginnings.
Perfect the vapid, blank gaze. (Note: You are above it, whatever it is.)
Throw your mother’s old prairie dress over jeans for a fresh look that’s part Laura Ingalls Wilder and part Chloë Sevigny.
Rent all films by Harmony Korine, Fellini, and Luis Buñuel of Belle de Jour fame.
Read the works of Sylvia Plath and expatriate writers like George Sand.
Date child prodigies who never went to college and built a lucrative career anyway; tortured artists with very pale skin and highly controversial bodies of work; former Ivy Leaguers turned actors who star in dark, eerie indie films, tend not to shave often, and wear tight polyester vintage pants. If those boys don’t work out, former Ivy Leaguers turned middle-management admins are fine, too.
Sapphic Fashionista
Your uniform consists of smart loafers (Prada, if possible), small round glasses (rimless are preferable), man-style suits or low-slung trousers with a crease down the middle of the leg. Ellen is your hero. Rosie is not. You worship Hillary Swank’s performance in Boys Don’t Cry, but wish that the director had instructed her to let her armpit and leg hair grow. You’re a lady-loving lady fashionista. You’re here! You’re queer! The world has no choice but to get used to it!
Learn your way around a camera. Subscribe to Vanity Fair.
Keep your hair on the shorter side of long.
Develop an intense appreciation of twentieth-century and folk art.
Pronounce your S sounds with a slight lishp (witnesh Melisha Etheridge).
Dismiss all renegsbians (lesbians who become straight) from your Rolodex.
Hang out with a circle of very creative types, including Madonna.
Note: Being Sapphic does not mean you cannot embrace lipstick and dresses.
Sassy Teen Fashionista
You’re artsy, moody, and gothic. People think you’re angry, but really you’re just misunderstood, and so what if you delight in slamming doors. You have a drawerful of vampy dark matte lipstick and a bit of a candle obsession. You’re a teen fashionista with sass. To cultivate this persona:
Make fishnet hose and combat boots part of your signature style.
Disdain all forms of extravagance (so provincial!).
Practice Wicca and design your own clothes (all it takes is a Hanes T-shirt and a pair of scissors, sweetheart).
If you’re not already publishing your own zine, start now.
Acquire a wicked record collection from garage-sale vinyls.
Never admit to liking those Lionel Richie love songs. (But it’s okay. We all do!)
Mafia/Ghetto-fab Fashionista
If you’re a label lover who speaks with a sharp Jersey/Brooklyn twang (i.e., “Whay-a are those Gooochie bags? Oh, they-a ov-a thay-a!”), who piles on large amounts of gold jewelry and liquid eyeliner, then just fuhgeddaboudit, you a fashionista, aiiight?
Whether you hail from a rough neighborhood or from the better part of town, always keep up a tough appearance.
Date street guys who ride Harleys.
Get motorcycle boots—with stilettos.
Keep your nails very long—and French manicured. Toes, too.
Take crap from no one. Especially men. Slap them around if possible.
Appreciate white fur, Lincoln Navigators, hip-hop music, and perhaps a good gun scandal here and there.
Mummy Fashionista
Soccer moms make your skin crawl. You can’t bake a chocolate-chip cookie to save your life. You’ve named your offspring Philomena, Tuleh, and Tarquin. So start scheduling play dates in between trunk shows, manicures, and pedicures . . . you’re the mother of all fashionistas!
Learn how to get baby spit-up out of suede, leather, and goat-hair Gucci.
Dress your child in chiffon, micro leather jackets, and funny little hats. Your baby (like your well-dressed husband, who, thanks to you, has become very aware of all the top designers and trends) is a glorified accessory, yet another extension of the image you project. She should dress like you, too (track pants with rainbow stripes and leopard slippers).
Take photos of the little one when she wears her first La Perla. Label it as such. “Ya-elle, first La Perla!”
Shop for your baby in cool locations or unexpected ones (boy clothing for girls, because little girls look the most adorable in killer cargo pants).
Never let your baby go out in public with an outfit that has attached footsies (that’s for bedtime only).
Create a groovy nursery for your kid that would be the envy of all your friends.
Messenger breast milk between shows during Fashion Week. Pumping up at the tents never felt so good.
Pop Tart Fashionista
Your pants barely cover your pubis and you regularly reveal at least twice the amount of skin most people would ever dream of exposing. You probably did some catalog modeling (or Mickey Mouse Club acting) as a child, but you’re still waiting for your big record deal. In the meantime, you take karaoke spin classes at the gym. Hit everyone, baby, one more time, you’re a fashionista pop princess in the making! Your deal is this:
Tell people you’re a virgin, even if you dress like a slut—and live with your boyfriend.
Do five hundred sit-ups a day, a thousand if you’re being good.
Add very blond (peroxide!) highlights to your hair.
Gravitate toward shoes with obnoxiously high platform soles.
Dance at any opportunity.
Add feather-trimmed coats, vinyl catsuits, and Daisy Dukes to your wardrobe rotation.
The Sisters Fashionista
Fashionistas are more powerful in numbers. So if you’re any of the above and have a female sibling who’s also any of the above, you fit this bill. Several examples of the type include:
Jackie Onassis and Lee Radziwill: the original stylish sister pair. Jackie married a Kennedy and the richest man in the world; Lee married a count and was Truman Capote’s best friend.
The Miller sisters: Pia, Marie-Chantal, and Alexandra, heiresses to the duty-free fortune. They conquered the fashion and social universe in the early nineties, scoring a Vanity Fair profile and photo spread wherein they were depicted as nineteenth-century socialites. They once said the best advice their mother gave them was “don’t bite your nails and don’t get fat.” Pia married and divorced a Getty; Alexandra married and divorced a von Furstenberg; Marie-Chantal married (and did not, at least at the time of publication, divorce) a prince of Greece and now designs a luxury line of (mostly cashmere) children’s wear.
Ashley and Mary-Kate Olsen: By the time they hit puberty, they had created a billion-dollar empire. They overcame their punch-line status to become formidable teen titans in girly embroidered minidresses and Range Rovers, with multi-mill
ion-dollar lofts in the West Village of New York.
Paris and Nicky Hilton: Paris starred in a porno tape and her own hit reality TV show. Nicky is taller, younger, and has yet to hit the Internet most-wanted list. They both design handbags in Japan and wear head-to-toe serious designer duds at all times.
Jane and Aerin Lauder: Heiresses to the Lauder fortune. Socialites and Oscar de la Renta, Carolina Herrera, Tuleh, Michael Kors, and J. Mendel mavens, they both work for the Lauder company and are often pictured in Vogue, Bazaar, and Town & Country in the most wonderful fashions.
MY FRIEND, THE FASHIONISTA
Karen, the Girl in “That Dress” at My Wedding MELISSA
The church was a Gothic cathedral built in 1920, and I was kneeling in front of the sacristy, my soon-to-be-husband by my side. Everything was perfect. I had walked down the aisle without tripping on the voluminous tulle skirt of my Cinderella-meets-Grace-Kelly gown, my dad had managed the handoff to Mike without a hitch, and Father O’Hare had quietly congratulated me on making a “spectacular entrance” and welcomed “all the beautiful fashionistas” to our wedding ceremony with genial charm. (Yes, he actually used that word! I was thrilled!)
Suddenly, there was a slight but audible gasp, a whispered ripple across the audience. I turned and saw my dear friend and writing partner Karen Robinovitz walking toward the reader’s podium. She was wearing a completely backless beaded micromini Chloe dress that dipped so low in the back it practically grazed her bum.
And we were inside a Catholic church. (Luckily, she’s Jewish.)
My relatives were scandalized. My friends, jaded New Yorkers all, looked just a tiny bit shocked. My parents nudged each other. Our Marie Claire editors in the pews took bets on the underwear situation (odds at five to one that she wasn’t wearing any).
But I only smiled.
I had asked Karen to perform the first reading instead of relegating her to bridesmaid status and limiting her fashion choices for the evening. In fact, I had asked her to wear that specific dress to my wedding. “It’s fantastic!” I told her. I knew it would cause a sensation, bring a hint of scandal, and give everyone something to talk about at the reception. A little bit of fashion fizz to add to the event.
Karen is the type of fashionista who thrives on “event” clothing. “If it doesn’t scream ‘Look at me!’ then I don’t want it,” she has said, while trying on yet another ornately feathered, slashed-at-the-hip, cleavage-baring number. Her style is uniquely her own—a dash of super-high-end designer (think white fur chubbies by Alexander McQueen) over a pair of slim Levi’s jeans (from the junior department), with signature skyscraper heels that add height to her tiny, four-foot-eleven-inch frame. She’s unafraid of fashion and wears her clothing with utter confidence and a great sense of humor.
Everyone should have a fashionista friend like Karen. Not only does she own all these wonderful clothes—her closet serves as a communal source for her friends when we need to borrow something a little outlandish, a little outrageous, for those extra-special occasions when a little black dress just won’t do. Nothing to wear? Just pop over to Karen’s and she’ll find you the perfect thing.
She has accepted Chloe as her personal savior! (You can’t tell in this picture, but it’s backless and revealing . . . trust me!)
We shop together, pore through magazines together, and conduct heated fashion play-by-plays on our outfits for the day. Her appetite for life is expressed in the vibrant way she dresses, and she’s the first person I turn to for an opinion about a designer purchase. Her judgment is honest but never cruel. I look better because I have her in my life. She’s taught me not to be afraid to be sexy, to stand out, and to claim the spotlight once in a while. My husband appreciates her influence as well—without her, I’d never wear the plunging V-neck tops that he adores (and that one insane Chloe barely-there T-shirt she got me as a gift when she came into a very large store credit after returning a present from her mother).
Later, at the reception, Karen apologized to Father O’Hare for her outfit. She felt a little guilty about her backless bravado.
“I’m sorry, I should have worn a sweater over my dress for the reading,” she told him.
“My dear,” Father O’Hare said, with a wink, “you were the best thing to happen to the altar!” Ahmen.
Sole Mates
KAREN
Melissa is not a fussy-clothes kind of girl. She is happiest in jeans and a little top of any kind, be it an Eley Kishimoto kimono, a tee from Target, a Marni hippie floral thing, or Gap button-downs (she has one in hot pink and one in turquoise, which she calls her “TV tops” because the colors pop on TV, should she have to make an appearance of any kind). Sure, she has a stable of hard-to-figureout pieces that require a manual for wearing, dresses that have trains that may be hazardous to her health, and ruffled tops that don’t quite stay buttoned (but they’re Christian Dior!). But all in all, she’s a laid-back fashionista who loves the fanciful, but is more often found in the casual. Down south is another story. Down south the girl is always equipped. She has a flawless shoe collection—four-inch-high turquoise Dolce & Gabbana heels with a fiercely pointy toe, vintage Vivienne Westwood platform sneaker clogs, gold pointy-toed numbers from the fifties, YSL sky-high stilettos with sassy polished prints across the toes, zipped-up Louboutins in denim . . . the list goes on and on. Even her sneakers are groovy—green-and-yellow suede Adidas slip-ons. Unfortunately, we are not the same shoe size.
I’ll never forget the romantic evening in April of 2000, when we consummated our relationship (in fashionista speak, that means cocktails and seared scallops at a very trendy restaurant). We met at a party at the Chanel store before heading off to dinner at 60 Thompson, a posh hotel in Soho. Up until this time, our connection consisted of meeting once, writing incessant e-mails (often about fashion), and making a whole bunch of canceled plans. Upon first sight, I was smitten. A fresh breath of fashionista air was cast upon the dingy streets as Mel, a vision in midcalf, thong-toed Burberry high-heeled leather boots, emerged from a sullen yellow taxi. Three passersby stopped dead in their tracks to compliment her foot gear. And she modestly thanked them, adding that they were from last season and she had never actually worn them before.
She confessed that she christened the shoes for her night out with me. I was truly touched. Especially because I busted out my ridiculous Imitation of Christ eyelet top with prairie collar, worn untucked and cinched at the waist with a black leather braided fringe Bruce belt just for her! Fashionistas tend to express their love by dressing for one another. Before we made our way into the glazed doors of the Chanel store on Spring Street, we took a moment to ogle each other’s styles. “A Marc Jacobs driving cap? Love!” “That Martine Sitbon ruched top? Hot!” I grabbed her arm as we marched onward and thought, She’s the one!
At Chanel, we admired the same shoes, double air-kissed our way through the crowd, and played the “If you could have whatever you want in the store, what would it be” game while Rene, a good-looking DJ who typically does Tom Ford’s and Diane von Furstenberg’s runway shows, mixed up groovy down-tempo beats. After we had our fill (time it takes to really enjoy a fashion party: about ten minutes), we sashayed to the restaurant, showing up a cool fifteen minutes late for our reservation. And it was at our very glamorous dinner when we came up with the idea for this book. But the moment was so much bigger than that.
It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship, the kind of connection that can never be jeopardized by silly disagreements and cranky outbursts. We clicked on so many levels, talking about everything from losing our virginity, family upbringings, and our mutual affinity for science fiction, to outrageous hats, new restaurants, pop art, and repeats of television shows we both watched in high school (Quantum Leap). I appreciated everything about her— her wry and quirky sense of humor, her biting wit, her slightly repressed nature (she blames that on her religious background), the way she laughs and inhales instead of exhales, and, of course, her crazy shoe
s (I had coveted them when they came out and was on the waiting list. . . . Sadly, I never heard from the Burberry salesgirl about my acceptance, much like the admissions board of a university).
Leaving the fashion scene (we had numerous editor—and Chanel bag—sightings), I noticed something quite peculiar. Melissa was walking funny—and rather slowly. I knew it couldn’t have been the wine. She had only one glass. I couldn’t remember if she had this awkward walk—toe-heel, toe-heel instead of heel-toe, heel-toe—earlier. Her feet probably hurt, I thought, a typical (and overlookable) side effect of great shoes. Blisters. It happens all the time.
The following week bred another fabulous dinner. And again Mel had that odd walk. Toe-heel, toe-heel, toe-heel. She had the pace of an elderly woman with a hip problem and a walker. And her body was pitched forward ever so slightly. Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I asked her if she was okay. I wasn’t sure if she was limping. “Shoes,” she said, “I can’t walk in heels.” I explained that she should go heel-toe, heel-toe, and she shrugged her shoulders. “I know, I know. But I can’t.”
Such a defeatist attitude, I told her. “Of course you can! Try.” We had a little lesson up Hudson Street in the West Village and lo and behold, Melissa was completely incapable of walking heel-toe, heel-toe when she wore a shoe with a heel that measured over two inches in height. And she has over a hundred pairs of stilettos! Such obstacles and risks of future posture and back problems, however, do not get in the way of her taste and zest for foot ornamentation. A true fashionista, the worse her walk gets, the more heels she buys. I have witnessed her try on many, many pairs of shoes that have killed what could be a beautiful gait. In her eyes, if she has trouble walking in them, they must be good! We have been late for meetings and we have missed grabbing at least a hundred taxis because of her shoe-stopping pace. She even admits her husband hates it when she wears heels for that very reason.
It’s a small price to pay for glamour. And when she’s sitting, she sure does look good.
The Fashionista Files Page 3
