I spent the early morning rewatching “Kids” for work while separating the contents of my bureau into three categories: Keep, Give Away, Cut Up. It was the third category that conferred the most pleasure. Hacking into clothing that’s failed to live up to its promise always feels so liberating, as if I’ve refused to toe a cruddy line. This morning I made a lacy vest out of a blouse with fussy sleeves, jaunty ankle-grazers out of sagging yoga pants, and a “Flashdance” T out of an oppressive neckline. It all looks a little rough, no doubt about it–my only tool was a pair of a kitchen shears–but those items had it coming. Besides, no matter how many times I wax my brows, you can never take the ’90s out of the girl. I’ll always be more punk rock than polished, just now I call it dowager chic.
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.
I spent the early morning rewatching “Kids” for work while separating the contents of my bureau into three categories: Keep, Give Away, Cut Up. It was the third category that conferred the most pleasure. Hacking into clothing that’s failed to live up to its promise always feels so liberating, as if I’ve refused to toe a cruddy line. This morning I made a lacy vest out of a blouse with fussy sleeves, jaunty ankle-grazers out of sagging yoga pants, and a “Flashdance” T out of an oppressive neckline. It all looks a little rough, no doubt about it–my only tool was a pair of a kitchen shears–but those items had it coming. Besides, no matter how many times I wax my brows, you can never take the ’90s out of the girl. I’ll always be more punk rock than polished, just now I call it dowager chic.
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. 