The Fashionista Files

This book is lovingly dedicated to our moms,
Ching de la Cruz and Judi Robinovitz,
the original fashionistas in four-inch heels,
who may regret teaching us so much about fashion
after reading our book/confessional.
Thank you for inspiring us to be all that we are—
and to look good doing it!
We would have nothing to wear
if it weren’t for you!

Additional Praise for
The
Fashionista
Files

“
The Fashionista Files
is filled with the kind of advice that you get from your best girlfriends. It’s all you need to look and feel amazing without looking like you actually tried.”

—
BOBBI BROWN, CEO, Bobbi Brown Cosmetics

“With the departure of
Sex and the City,
the fashion hungry obsessed need look no further than
The Fashionista Files,
an encyclopedia from A to Zegna on how to walk, talk, and look like a million bucks. Before it’s in fashion, it’s in
The Fashionista Files.
”

—BONNIE FULLER, Chief Editorial Director, American Media Inc.

“Imagine a book that tells you not only what designers to wear, but how to pronounce them! Not only what time to arrive, but what to do once you get there! This is an indispensible guide to worshiping at the throne of fashion and fabulousness.
J’adore
it!”

—
MICHAEL MUSTO,
The Village Voice

“Melissa and Karen are the kind of terminally deranged fashionistas who give fashion a bad name . . . and I love them for it.”

—
SIMON DOONAN, author of
Wacky Chicks

“The real princepessas Robinovitz and de la Cruz write the believe-it-or-not take on what’s really going on behind the scenes of the ugly business of being beautiful. Wow! What a ride! I love this book.”

—
JANICE DICKINSON, “The World’s First Supermodel”
and author of
No Lifeguard on Duty
and
Everything About Me Is Fake . . . and I’m Perfect!

Praise for
How
to
Become
Famous
in
Two
Weeks
or
Less
by Melissa de la Cruz and Karen Robinovitz

“For anyone who has ever stood before a bathroom mirror and secretly thanked The Academy, a hilarious guide to becoming ‘It’ in an age where the line between fame and infamy is as fine as a Manolo Blahnik stiletto heel.”

—BONNIE FULLER, former editor-in-chief,
US Magazine

“Some are born famous, some achieve fame, and some have fame thrust upon them. For the rest of us, this book is essential reading.”

—
TOBY YOUNG, author of
How to Lose Friends and Alienate People

“Let’s face it, who doesn’t want their fifteen minutes of fame? But the road to getting there can be as difficult as crawling over broken glass. Karen and Mel take you on an ‘ouch-free’ red carpet ride to the VIP room in this great read with lots of laughs along the way.”

—ROSHUMBA WILLIAMS, supermodel and
correspondent for
Entertainment Tonight

“Karen and Melissa capture the zeitgeist of American pop culture perfectly. Consider this ‘the rules’ to gaining popularity and fame for the generation raised on
The Real World.
Plus, it’s a riot.”

—
MOLLY SIMS, MTV host, actress, supermodel

“[A] sassy and shamelessly shallow guide to landing in the limelight . . . [an] entertaining look at the often frightening world of fame.”

—Publisher’s Weekly

“A must-read for every aspiring A-lister, de la Cruz and Robinovitz’s guidebook for pursuing fame and notoriety in New York high society has everything you’ll need to hoist yourself above the hoi polloi; along with every reason not to bother.”

—
Gotham
magazine

“Don’t waste your time trying to make it on
American Idol.
All you need to propel yourself into the spotlight are the burning yearning for celebrity and a copy of this guffaw-inducing guidebook. Authors de la Cruz and Robinovitz created, then followed, a set of fame-focused rules which managed—for journalistic purposes—to launch them onto the most sparkling party pages and gossip columns. . . . The riotous read wittily illuminates the requirements of fame and consequently exposes why you probably don’t want any part of it.”

—
LA Confidential

“Karen Robinovitz and Melissa de la Cruz will have you laughing on the red carpet in no time.

—
Marie Claire

INTRODUCTION

Fashion! Don’t Leave Home Without It

If you think fashionistas are that rare breed lucky enough to have been born in Paris and educated in Swiss boarding schools, are able to run in high heels and oversize sunglasses through airports, sip 1985 Château Lafite Rothschild with film directors in the Hamptons, edit fashion magazines, sit front-row at fashion shows, and own the latest outfit even before it hits the stores, you’re right . . . but you’re also wrong.

Today’s fashionista is, as the Kinks put it, a dedicated follower of fashion. She is anyone who has rejected the tried-and-true, staid-and-sensible, matching-bag-and-shoes, no-white-after-Labor-Day rules to follow a fantasy of art-directed glory.

A fashionista is a teenage raver in all black, a drag queen with tearsheets of supermodels on her bedroom walls, a doctor who wears stilettos with her lab coat, a classics professor who revels in Prada, a twelve-year-old girl who reads Mommy’s
Vogue
under the covers late at night and carefully plots what she’ll wear to school at least twelve to fifteen hours in advance, and anyone and everyone whose world has been touched and inspired by fashion and who aspires to a life of whimsy, elegance, frivolity, and fabulousness.

You can recognize a fashionista by the pointy shoes she wears, her never-changing haircut, her affinity for French techno music, and her uncanny ability to get into nightclubs without waiting in line. She’s the girl who can make a halter top from a T-shirt, knowingly guess what the starlets are wearing on Oscar night, and make Old Navy look like Chanel. She mixes cheap, no-name Kmart and thrift-store finds with high design. She puts herself together with ease—and daydreams about how to mix and match her clothing in new, innovative ways. She fancies accessories and understands that an outfit just isn’t an outfit without the right pair of shoes.

Fashionistas are also not afraid to look slightly ridiculous. Just look at Betsey Johnson, who cartwheels down the fashion runway in all her kooky glory. Or Isabella Blow, the British muse of hat designer Philip Treacy, with her insane headgear. Like them, you have to be willing to take risks and slide into open-toe shoes in the winter. Stepping beyond the line is all part of the lifestyle. If a snide someone ever asks you if you’re trying to look like an elfin hooker (as someone said to Karen when she wore a smashing emerald-green one-shouldered Alice Roi minidress with trailing chiffon shards to a party), or says, “Should I call you Pocahontas?” (as someone asked Mel when she had her hair done in Bo Derek braids way before J.Lo resurrected them in one of her videos), just take it in stride and don’t let it bother you. Some people are intimidated by fashion. Don’t be one of them!

Being a member of the fashion species is about more than just fashion. It is an entire way of being and living that includes an appreciation for all pop culture phenomena, from television and food to film and literature. It means going to trendy restaurants, or at least talking about them from an all-knowing point of view. A fashionista prides herself on the details—noticing everything from the lighting (flattering or not?), the curve of a table, the art on a wall, the hue of a shade of paint, the uniforms the waiters wear, the carb count of an Advantage bar.

Her vocabulary is stocked with fashion terms (utilitarian chic, empire waist, kick pleat). She has more black pants than you can imagine—and a reason behind why she needs each and every pair (they are so different from one another if you really think about it, you know). She drinks designer water (Evian, anyone?), and is obsessed with classic fifties cinema, guilty pleasures (fast food, disco, and celebrity gossip!), cell phones, lacy frills, spa moments, the pop art movement, British tabloids, car services (even if that means Mom dropping you off at the mall), and multicultural influences of all kinds. She can pull off the kind of crazy getups no one else could get away with. And she can make anything look stylish (all she needs is a pair of scissors, fabulous earrings, and a bit of imagination).

This book will show you how to embrace fashionistadom to the fullest, from how to maintain the treasures in your closet, to keeping your pocket Chihuahua safe in your Kelly bag while shopping, to ordering at restaurants, perfecting the double air-kiss, and loads of other tips for living large and loving every minute of it.

So if you are a fashionista (God bless!), or just want to look and talk like one (God bless!), then this is the book for you!

Like Mother, Like Daughter
KAREN

My mother is a fashionista. In all of the old pictures of her (posing, of course), she’s wearing the best platform shoes, tight bell-bottom jeans, wide-brimmed hats, and lots of red suede. She was my style role model. And maybe my worst influence. When I was a child she carted me around when she went shopping, introducing me to designer names like Ungaro and Valentino. “These are the European greats,” she once said, offering words of wisdom. I was probably eight at the time. And I remember watching her try things on and thinking that she was the most glamorous woman on Earth. Granted, it was the eighties, a time of excess, over-the-top fashion, shoulder pads, and vulgar indulgence. But to me, her day trips to stores seemed like theater. Fashion had a magical way of making people—or at least my mother and the other shoppers—happy. Mom emerged from the dressing room to find an eager gaggle of saleswomen applauding her, gushing, “Gorgeous! Beautiful! Smashing! Stunning!” I wanted to be all those things.

I learned valuable lessons from my mom on those excursions. She taught me that style is not about wearing expensive designer labels all at once, but putting them together in a way that reflects your personality. “Mix high fashion with jeans. Add shine, shimmer, and satin to cotton classics. Spice something up with a great hat. Have fun! Play,” she said, encouraging me to try on her clothes and get creative with my own. She taught me that dressing is about fantasy, making up a character that fits a mood. And while it’s not who you are at heart, it certainly can help you feel better. Even if it’s just for a moment.

When she first married my father and they were struggling newlyweds saving to buy their first home, she would sneak to stores to buy boots without his permission. In 1968 she purchased $50 black leather knee-high boots that puckered down the front from a guy named Ivan Radowitz on Route 22 in Greenbrook, New Jersey. When she brought them home, excited and giddy to share her joy, my father went crazy. He yelled at her for being so frivolous. She cried and cried and begged to keep them. (She did and now she lives in Manolos. But she still has moments when she begs to keep certain fashion acquisitions that she picked up on a whim.)

In a way I was reared on fashion. It was my destiny. My mother was always very concerned with how I was dressed. There are tons of baby photos of me wearing her oversize Chanel sunglasses. She used to tape pink bows to my head when I had no hair. And she basically used me in order to indulge her own flights of fashion fancy. “Let’s put her in this,” she’d say, as if she were a mad scientist, mixing potions that could potentially explode. I was her doll. And I must have loved it, because the apple, much to my father’s chagrin, does not fall far from the tree.

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!)

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