The Fashionista Files

by Karen Robinovitz

  He had a tempting tough-guy exterior, but such an air of sweetness. He made eye contact. He was full of compliments and said my shoes were sexy (black Louboutin sandals with four-inch heels and silver zippers instead of straps). He chivalrously opened all doors for me and made sure my glass of water was always full.

  Between his harsh Brooklyn accent, his motorcycle racing, the Harley shop he used to own, the two (permanent) earrings in his left ear, the large tattoo that snakes up his left calf (I didn’t see it on date one, but I heard about it), and the giant scar of a lion he had carved (yes, carved) into his back (that, I made him show me), Todd’s image—not to mention his beat-up jeans, motorcycle boots, and black T-shirt with a red devil on it—was the complete opposite of every nice Jewish boy I had ever dated (and broken up with).

  We came from such different worlds.

  He’s from Gravesend, a hard-core Brooklyn neighborhood with a heavy Catholic Italian population. He was, as he says, a street kid. He turned in his football helmet by the time he hit high school in exchange for a motorcycle helmet and a guitar (he gigged with a heavy-metal band and stayed out partying all night long). His dad split, and Todd, a smart kid with good grades and a bit of an antiauthority attitude, worked to put food on the table at the young age of fifteen, when he got his first tattoo.

  Meanwhile, I’m from a mostly Jewish upper-middle-class suburb of New Jersey, where I attended a private school with a dress code and went on class ski trips to Austria. Mine was the life of summer sleepaway camp, a new car—with bow—on my seventeenth birthday, and SAT prep classes that began in eighth grade. At fifteen, I certainly wasn’t getting tattoos and putting food on the table. I was the type who went to the library on weekends, never stayed out past curfew (okay, maybe once or twice), and used to make steak tartare and Caesar salads with my mom for dinner.

  Back to our date: When I realized it was three minutes to midnight, I needed to go. I had a yoga class at nine A.M. and wanted my eight hours of sleep. Todd sweetly said, “I guess I have three minutes to kiss you before you turn into a pumpkin.” (How irresistible.) After he tucked me into a cab, I watched him walk away and thought to myself, If he turns his head around to look at me one last time, it means we’ll fall in love and it’s meant to be. Two seconds later, he turned. And neither of us has looked back since.

  I love everything about Todd, especially our differences. As hard as he is on the outside, is as soft as he is on the inside. He is the perfect fusion of a gentleman, a rebel, a knight in shining armor, a bad boy, a romantic, a responsibly wild child. He is a rock of stability and the best thing ever to happen to me. While we have the core, important things in common—our values, morals, life desires, psychological awareness, and senses of humor, as well as our need for adventure, weekend hikes, and lazy Sunday mornings— he once joked he’s showing me the underworld (I am learning to play poker and ride a motorcycle), and I’m showing him the upperworld (he’s learning yoga and taking trips to the Whitney Museum).

  When we started dating, we went out for dinner and drinks three to four times a week. I’d always be dolled up (from Chloe jeans, chandelier earrings from Peru, and leather scarves to knee-high boots, classic pumps, and shrunken asymmetrical tops, he really appreciated my style and would take in every detail about my look) and he’d be laid-back cool with a Vanson Leathers jacket (a big motorcycle brand), a silver cross thumb ring, old-school Levi’s, and Chrome Hearts tops that said “Fuck you” on them.

  I happened to love his aesthetic—and still do. His clothes hang on him perfectly, revealing his defined, athletic body just right. And what he wears really suits him. Especially the motorcycle boots that make a heavy clunking noise when he walks, which, for some reason, always makes me feel that if we were walking down a dark alley and someone attacked us, I’d be in safe, able hands.

  Then one day we were invited to a fashion party that required him to—gasp!—wear a suit. “Baby, I don’t have a stylin’ suit,” he sheepishly confessed. I thought about it for a moment and said, “Who cares . . . just go in what you’re comfortable with.” But he didn’t want to. “If I’m going to be by your side and you’re so styled out, I want to be, too,” he said.

  Thus began his fashionisto conversion. We spent hours in and out of the best men’s stores in the city, but everything we found was cut too loosely for him. We left each place empty-handed, Adidas shell-top sneakers notwithstanding. Todd wanted a more streamlined, sophisticated, European look. For that, there’s only one place to go: Gucci. “Brace yourself,” I warned, asking him to fork over his credit card.

  I informed him that he would be spending a bit more money than he’s used to, but that it would be worth it because we’d be investing in classic lifetime pieces that he’d wear forever. “You won’t need a lot of dress clothes,” I assured him, “just one pair of black pants. Maybe another in blue, gray, or tan, and a dress shirt or two. The rest you can mix and match with the clothes you already have. Nothing is hotter than slick Gucci pants with Adidas and an old T-SHIRT.”

  Rough around the edges!

  He tore through racks, holding up things I never imagined his liking—leather pants, cashmere waffle sweaters, long wool trench coats, three-button pin-striped suits, fitted pants with flared legs, and serious boots with a square toe and a chunky heel. I sat in the dressing room with him, lavishly doting, folding the pants under so they wouldn’t look too long when he finally looked in the mirror, buttoning the cuffs of the shirts, and ensuring that everything, from the crease down the center of the pants to the neckline of a sweater, was perfect. “I like this no-pleats thing,” he remarked. I even caught him turning around to catch a glimpse of his butt and giving himself a nod of approval. Furthermore, he didn’t balk at the $560 price tag on the black wool trousers or the $250 one on the gray-black-and-white-striped shirt. “You’re right about Gucci. If it looks this good, I don’t mind spending,” he admitted. We were treated to (designer) bottles of water and such impeccably good service that Todd was impressed. “I should shop like this more often,” he said. I was creating a monster!

  Streamlined and chic! So GQ!

  At the end of the session, he left with three chic pairs of pants, a couple of sweaters, two beautiful button-down shirts, and the most outrageous suit I ever did see. Sadly, they didn’t have the boots in his size . . . in any of the Gucci locations in the country. He asked the store to call—without my suggesting it, a move only a savvy fashionisto knows how to make. Clearly, he was born for this life!

  Now when we go out, I find myself worrying that he looks better than I do! But he always whispers in my ear, “Nothing looks as good as you, my beauty.” True or not, nothing sounds more delicious than that. Yet another reason I love him so.

  This leads us to the last type of fashionista:

  The Significant-other Fashionista

  (Sometimes Called the Fashionisto)

  You thought Issey Miyake was a Japanese noodle, and Fendi a disease from the African sub-Sahara, but now you know better. You used to shop at the Gap and Banana Republic, but now you insist on Jil Sander suits and Helmut Lang overcoats. You’ve caught the bug—you’re the fashionista’s better half.

  Although you will begin to acquire more clothes than you ever deemed necessary, you will have to prepare to give up closet space. A lot of closet space. You can live out of a suitcase, right?

  Get promoted. You’re going to need to make more money to support her shopping habit. And don’t even think of balking at price tags or saying something like “Five hundred dollars for a pair of shoes?”

  Maintain your good looks. Hit the gym and slather on the Rogaine. She didn’t marry you because you were balding and fat!

  Never put her jeans in the wash or be prepared for a bad scene. (They’re dry-clean-only denim; you should know that by now.) The same goes for bras. Dryers warp them, mister, so let them air-dry over a rack in the bathroom.

  Cultivate your sense of humor and indulge her fashion fantasies.
Never laugh at her outfits. Unforgivable.

  Learn the names of important designers and be able to spot them from a block away.

  Say unflattering, not fat. Fat should never be used to describe any part of your girl, or even in the presence of her, come to think of it. Not even if you’re talking about meat or bacon.

  Quick Tips for Making Over Your Man

  Do it gently. Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was any self-respecting fashionisto.

  Stay true to who he is at heart. Work his new style around his needs. You’re not trying to change him, just improve him. If you are trying to change him, it may be time to think about finding someone else.

  Begin by getting him new beauty products and work your way up from there. Once he sees the subtle differences lotion or hair gel can make, he will be more apt to try on the jeans you recommend.

  Ooh, ah, and compliment him to death. Changing a man’s style is a lot like changing someone’s grip on a tennis racket. It will be uncomfortable for him at first, but if he sees how positively you respond, he will get used to it—and realize how much better-off he is.

  Make sure he gets good shoes. Shoes are the most important part of anyone’s look. Even if it’s sneakers, they need to be the right sneakers (more of this in the closet chapter, which is next).

  Once you have new shoes, get to the jeans. His jeans should be relaxed and sitting on his hips, not his waist. Also, they should not, under any circumstances, taper at the bottom or be too baggy—or too tight—through the hip area. Introduce him to the bootleg cut. When you get them altered, if they need shortening, tell the tailor to keep the same kind of seam intact.

  Destroy all of his pleated pants. There is nothing worse than a cute guy in pleats. Invest in flat-front, flat-front, flat-front. We cannot stress that enough!

  Get him at least one crisp white button-down shirt, one shirt with French cuffs, and silver cuff links.

  If his hair needs a new look, take him to your place—your treat—and act like it’s a gift, something you’re doing just to be nice . . . which, of course, you are. You want him to look better. If that’s not nice, what is?

  THE UPS, THE DOWNS, THE GOOD, THE BAD, THE UGLY—THE CREEDS THAT GIVE US CRED

  Like the Jews, the Hare Krishnas, and other minority groups, fashionistas have endured much persecution, i.e., magazine intern-ships and multiple prom dress mishaps! It is because of our struggles of yesteryear that we are who we are today. Before you, as a fashionista, can enter a room in the drop-dead dress that causes a sensation, you must understand that the path to red-carpet glory is littered with the obstacles of fashion flops of the past. We are a people who relentlessly try the new, the daring, the impossible to explain. And therefore we have paid the consequences. We have found ourselves suffocating in the heat because we just had to wear our new leather motocross trousers . . . in August. We’ve been in the podiatrist’s office, nursing ingrown toenails as a result of shoes that were too pointy and too small (but we had to have them anyway). And we’re all the better because of it. Here’s a look at some of our flops that made history.

  A Hair-raising Tale

  MELISSA

  I am a survivor of an all-girl private high school in the snooty Pacific Heights area of San Francisco. As anyone can tell you, high school can be rough, but imagine if the only other people in your class were thirty-eight debutantes. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating. There were only ten debutantes in our class that year; the other twenty-eight had to make do with their trust funds. Needless to say, nonconformity was not an option.

  The girls I went to school with fit into three models: The first, in every sense of the word, were the gorgeous, slim-hipped, size-six (in my day, the popular girls weren’t size zero yet—which is a really frightening prospect for teens these days), usually blonde, milk-and-cream-skinned goddesses; these girls were so frighteningly pretty that when they graduated they made a profession out of it, and not just by modeling. The prettiest girl in my high school went on to marry an heir to an oil fortune, and she now graces glossy magazines with riveting tales of how she stocks her closet. Still, she’s not a fashionista. There’s a difference between fashionista and just being rich enough to buy nice things. Real fashionistas have a joie de vivre, a certain wacky irrepressibility that keeps them just shy of overt materialism.

  The other two types of girls at my school were the aspirational, snub-nosed, dark-haired girls who acted like ladies-in-waiting to the goddesses, while the third group was made up of everyone else: the misfits.

  The misfits at my school included anyone who didn’t wear a red Patagonia jacket over her uniform. To this day, I consider red (or blue) Patagonia jackets the uniform of the oppressor. I went to school wearing an ankle-length green army trench coat with epaulets and a beret. (The beret was a jaunty addition.) Other days I wore a gray fedora and an extra-long silk snakeprint scarf that I tied to my knee in homage to John Taylor of Duran Duran. “What’s up with the fedora?” I would hear the girls whisper.

  “What’s up with the scarf?”

  “Why is it on her knee?”

  Mel at a really bad age. Her hair is bigger than the Xmas tree!

  I could have explained that I was working a skate-punk-hip-hop-quasi-alternonew-wave-mall-rat look. But with my dyed-blond bangs, feathered hair, three-dollar Salvation Army blazer, and a best friend who dyed her long hair red with Kool-Aid and snorted when she laughed, I had no hope. On certain special Fridays, our school initiated a “free dress” day, wherein students were allowed to wear whatever they wanted—within reason (i.e., no midriff-baring shirts or spandex leggings—as if!). Most of my classmates took the opportunity to bust out the Benetton, Esprit, Guess? jeans, cable-knit sweaters (the sweater of the oppressor!), and a colorful palette of pastels, plaids, or khakis.

  I still remember my favorite free-dress outfit. It was a checkered minisuit (with mighty stiff shoulder pads), white tights, ruched boots, and my fake Louis Vuitton bucket bag. I still remember how much it cost—$19.99 from Foxmoor, a trendy store in the mall. It was my “New York” outfit. When I wore it, I dreamed I was dashing around the streets of Manhattan, a smart, successful, independent woman. I was sixteen then, and little did I know New Yorkers would never be caught dead in white tights and the hellacious perm I am sporting in this picture. But back then, this outfit was my rebellion against the cookie-cutter preppy wear of my peers. And even if I cringe when I see it, I’m still proud of the suburban girl who had big-city dreams bigger than her hair.

  Bittersweet Sixteen

  KAREN

  When I was sixteen, I begged my parents to get me an oversize Dallas Cowboys fully sequined royal-blue football jersey—with shoulder pads and number on the back—to wear to my best friend’s birthday party. It was expensive, so they said no. Not having it felt like such agony. I had no idea how I’d even get out of the house on the eve of her sixteenth year. Clearly no other ensemble would do. And one sweet day, my mother came home with it to surprise me (she got it through a friend, who knew a friend who worked in the showroom and was able to get it wholesale, which means half-price). It felt like a gift from the heavens. I was in a state of shock that I actually owned something so fabulous. The thought of wearing it was so exciting, I couldn’t sleep for days. I wouldn’t even put it in my closet. I left it hanging on the closet door, just so I could look at it at all times.

  I wouldn’t tell any of my friends what I’d be wearing to the party. I wanted to surprise people, as if it were a wedding dress. I turned up wearing it—with silver heels and a white sequined miniskirt (I opted to skip the matching sequined baseball hat, much to my mom’s chagrin; even then I knew when to draw the fashion line!)—and thought I was the cat’s meow. I danced all night and walked tall and proud in my shiny ensemble. “Some outfit” was the best compliment of the evening. They were just jealous, I told myself! I never wore it again—not because I didn’t want to, but because I had no other place to wear it. Until one year later, when I was
invited to another sweet sixteen in a different part of town, where the audience would be totally new. It’s not the kind of look you can wear twice with the same crowd.

  I pulled it out of my closet, slowly unzipped the garment bag, and took it out. But all of my giddy emotions of admiration had left the building. I felt a wave of sadness come over me. This wasn’t so great. The shoulder pads were huge. And I didn’t even really like the Cowboys. My dad happened to, but at the wise age of seventeen, I came to understand that it was probably just because of the cheerleaders.

  1-2-3 hike (this outfit out of the closet)!

  I looked at this sparkling piece of fabric, thinking, Huh . . . I remember it being much, much cuter. I put it on, just to make sure. Suddenly I saw myself not as this cute little sylph in a daringly bold outfit, but a tiny little drag queen with a Bon Jovi haircut! I zipped the bag up and went with another dress—something simple and black with sequined straps. It was at that point that epiphany struck: The Cowboys outfit was a mistake. I hoped never to see it again.

  Flash forward: I was twenty-one years old and I had to go to my cousin Bryan’s bar mitzvah. I had gained twenty pounds during the first semester of college and none of my clothes fit. Not the dress I was originally supposed to wear. Not a suit, not a skirt, not even a blouse! I didn’t want to go. There was no time to shop for something new. I got home from school on a Saturday morning and there were services to get to and a party to attend right away. I pleaded with my parents to let me stay home. But they wouldn’t give in. They didn’t understand that when fashionistas can’t find the right clothes, leaving the house is simply not an option. Suddenly my mother emerged from the attic with the sequined football jersey, the largest piece of clothing in the house. “No! Not that! Anything but that,” I screamed. The next thing I knew I was at the party, sitting (well, whining and moping) in the corner, stuffing myself with cake, in the midst of a miserable fashion moment. (Need I add that the skirt was my mother’s—and I couldn’t button or zip it, but the top was long enough to cover it up?)