Back’s still injured but yesterday was a Talking Pictures taping day and I’m too stubborn to cry uncle. So after days of sweatpants and icepacks and salt baths and Big Mama Thornton, I rallied and put on an Audrey Hepburn-on-acid dress and red lipstick. Black pumps, even. It’s all about the fake-it-til-you-make-it, ladies and germs.
Four seemingly unrelated observations that consumed my soggy journey home tonight. (No doubt a Jungian scholar could tease out a few useful connections.) 1. Regarding John Travolta’s nonresponse to “Going Clear,” I’d love it if just once a zombie-celeb actually read or watched some criticism of Scientology before rushing to the defense of their cult. 2. Umbrella, subway, smartphone, tipping, and sidewalk etiquette certification should be required of all NYC residents and visitors. 3. This spring’s fashion can best be described as Blade Runner Chic. It’s all futuristic noir, 1940s-style punk, Victorian blouses, white-blond shocks of hair, dark pompadours, impossibly narrow silhouettes, bright lips, black-rimmed eyes, platform shoes. I dig it all so much that I cut my hair and bought (more) red lipstick. 4. I’m still laughing about people’s responses to the shearing of my mermaid tresses: “Your hair was far too long before.” Even my shrink said this. Word to Mattel: Can the plans for Fortysomething Barbie.
It’s that time of year. I have all these fashion topics I want to discuss and feel guilty for wanting to discuss them. On the list: my newfound love of lacy Victorian blouses (especially paired with leather skirts); my lust for thick white platform sandals despite how they make feet look bandaged by an overzealous World War I nurse; my deep relief that flares are coming back in style (skinny jeans make people look like they have a load in their diapers); my new appreciation for florals with a dark background (used to hate’em); my abiding love of bold pastels and Brazilian prints and YSL and red lipstick and striped socks and enormous earrings and pencil skirts and trench coats and ponchos and crisp white shirts; my abiding hatred for rich-girl hair and fringed jackets and the color mustard and crop tops and boxy blazers and flat black Nikes and jumpsuits (even overalls), not to mention tattoos and piercings anywhere but the ear (there, I said it); my deep impatience with the resurgence of ’90s fashion (it was drab and unflattering then, it’s drab and unflattering now); my raging internal debate about whether to cut my hair to my shoulders; my admiration of women who go grey (and my unwillingness to do so myself).
Of course, beneath this magazine-lady maelstrom lurk hopes that only a long-awaited spring can spark: fancies of bare legs and dinners al fresco and first kisses (and fucks). When the weather finally brightens like it did today, it’s possible to imagine a love to fit all the pretty dresses in the world.