The Fashionista Files (7 page)
Slingbacks—Much easier to wear than mules due to the strap that wraps around the back of the heel.
The slingback
Strappy sandal—Foot bondage! Nothing like sexy, sexy straps to enhance the curves of the foot when you’re stepping out in a slinky dress, a modern tuxedo, or cutesy short shorts.
The strappy
Sneakers—The fashionista sneaker is a very important part of the footwear collection. Even if we’re tripping about in stilettos, at some point we have to run errands (dry cleaning, grocery store, taking Pierre, the mini-Yorkie, to the vet). For these instances, it is helpful to acquire the proper sneakers. Fashionista sneakers are either old-school (Adidas, Pumas, Tretorns, K-Swiss, even checkered Vans) or high-tech (Nike sneaker clogs or designer numbers by Samsonite, Yohji Yamamoto, Prada, or Jil Sander—all of which are reminiscent of bowling shoes), in interesting fabrics (leather, suede, denim) or unexpected colors (orange, silver, black patent). The fashionista sneaker is never one that could be mistaken for an early-eighties aerobic-class mainstay. (Unless you want to be postmodern and ironic, in which case, you might want to consider adding leg warmers!)
Note: Shoe upkeep and maintenance is key. Save all boxes and cloth or felt bags that come with designer shoes. Take Polaroids of the shoes and tape them to the outside of the boxes so that, when they’re stacked in your closet, you know what is what. Go to a shoe service place and get tips put on the top portion of soles so you don’t wear them down easily. Wash shoes after you’ve been in the rain or the snow, as moisture warps the leather. Treat all suede shoes to waterproof them. And get a suede brush for suede shoes, too. When not wearing shoes, keep the tissue paper inserted in them in order to preserve the shape of the shoe (otherwise you’ll risk toe crushing). Search for a fantastic shoe healer who can cure all boo-boos. In Manhattan, everyone, from the Manolo store to Anna Wintour, relies on Shoe Service Plus in Midtown.
An Exception to Our Usual Four-inch-heel-only Rule:
Gifts from the Land Down Under
MELISSA AND KAREN
In New York, the Ugg revolution came slowly, around 2002. As far as rustic hippie boots go, first we experienced the Minnetonka Moccasin renaissance, which popped up a while after the Birkenstock comeback, which occurred before the gardening-clog trend. The knee-high cowhide boots appeared on the shelves of froufrou boutiques in Nolita in 2000 and 2001, at the very same time that Native American–inspired boots by Marni were all the rage.
At $80 a pair (the Minnetonka versions), we couldn’t resist bucking up. In the name of Pocahontas, we plunked down our maxed-out credit cards. We wore our mocs with denim miniskirts and rabbit-fur chubbies, feeling oh-so-cool. We looked like a cross between prostitute and alternachick. Alternatutes perhaps?
After the moccasin craze simmered, we noticed something new in their place: tan sheepskin boots. The same week, Kate Hudson was pictured wearing them in the pages of
US Weekly.
So were Pamela Anderson and Drew Barrymore.
“
Uggs!
” Karen cried. “I started wearing them when I was a freshman in college! A surfer chick from California introduced me to them and I lived in them all through school. And I swear, I was just thinking of getting a new pair the other day!”
She quickly put on a pair. They felt like the most delicious slippers in the world. Especially because they’re meant to be worn barefoot. “I’m taking them! I’ve missed them so much! You don’t understand how they cradle your feet like a warm blanket. They’re the best. Mel, you have to have them!” she cried.
Uggs and chunky fur hats spell snow-bunny sophistication.
Karen explained that Uggs, first born in 1978, came from Australia, where beach bunnies and surfers wore them with bikinis when it got cold after dips in the ocean. “They’re soooo sexy with bathing suits,” Karen chanted. At first Mel resisted the Uggexplosion. They were flat-heeled, after all. She was wary. But she was soon envious of Karen’s ultra-comfort . . . and how cute the boots looked over Juicy Couture sweatpants, accessorized by a yoga bag and a fur hat. Within months Uggs were everywhere. You couldn’t walk a block without spotting at least two pairs. Karen kept urging Mel to get them. “You must own these. They will change your life. I even wear them around my house as slippers,” Karen persuaded.
Mel finally caved. (Karen thinks it’s because they passed model Helena Christensen on the street, walking hand in hand with her adorable blond straggly-haired son, Mingus . . . and they were both wearing Uggs.) “All right, you win! I’ll get them! Take me to your leader,” Mel said. “Besides, they would look kind of cute with the sweatshirt housedress I wear when I’m writing.”
Once Mel put them on her feet, they never came off! She couldn’t believe it had taken her so long to finally get them. Now they are the only shoes we wear other than our four-inch stilettos. Our must-haves are Manolos, Jimmy, and Ugg. And we’ll never take them off, even if the trend is long over.
The Hosiery Question
For several years, hosiery was simply out of the question for fashionistas. Bare legs in winter was a hard-and-fast rule. Fashion before comfort, dahling. This was very trying, especially for fashionistas who lived in colder climates and did not want to die of pneumonia. But for daytime, the rules have bent a bit, and fashionistas are now filling their hosiery drawers with the following:
Fishnets—Now a fashionista classic. Their versatility is the key. They can be worn during many fashion movements: punk, slutty secretary, neo-cancan girl. In addition to classic black, keep a host of fishnets in a riot of colors. We love magenta, nude, and glittery silver. Classic black is a must-have. Quirky fashionistas get creative and wear colored fishnets over black opaque tights or black fishnets over brightly hued tights. Sophisticated fashionistas pair them with pencil skirts, cashmere, fur coats, and heels.
Patterned tights—Plaid, lace, and crocheted tights are a great way to spice up something basic. Steer clear of black-and-white horizontal-striped numbers. (They’ll make your legs look fat, dear. Just ask Mel, who had a bad fashion moment in 1987 while wearing zebra-striped tights with an all-black ensemble.)
Socks—Like tights, socks go in and out of acceptance. Striped, colored, fishnet, patterned, and fun socks have become a perennial mate for all stilettos (especially open-toed versions). Buy rainbow stripes, polka dots, cartoon character–covered, or graffiti socks. You can never be too crazy when achieving this aesthetic. Very cheeky. Warning: Best worn between the ages of thirteen and twenty-seven.
We have to add, however, that if you are going to a fancy evening ball—a black-tie wedding, a museum benefit, a swishy cocktail party—and are planning to pull on that exquisite swanlike, floorlength gown, or a knee-length strapless black dress and a fur shrug—you must
not
wear hose.
Never.
If you need some control-top action, get super-body-hugging stockings and cut off the legs.
DIANA VREELAND ONCE SAID, “BREVITY IS THE SOUL OF LINGERIE
While some extreme fashionistas avoid underwear altogether (“But I’m allergic!”—Karen), most of us like a little support down there. The rules for wearing fashionista underwear differ according to garment. While underpants must
never
rise up above one’s trousers or skirts (sorry, but the thong-flashing look is just so
not
fashionista, unless, of course, Tom Ford is advocating it in an ad campaign, then by all means), baring bra straps is totally acceptable.
Under Where?
MELISSA
I used to be a white-cotton-underwear girl. As a good Catholic schoolgirl, I wore underwear my mother purchased for me at Sears, Mervyn’s, or some other reasonably bland retail emporium. My underwear was either white, cream, baby blue, or candy pink. Then one day during my senior year in high school in 1988, my best friend and I walked several blocks to the Victoria’s Secret downtown. Ling-yi was as demure as a Chinese girl could be; she laughed with her hand cupped in front of her mouth. She was a National Merit Scholar and in the running for valedictorian, and like me, she wore our school’s uniform shirt chastely buttoned up to the neck and her skirts right on the knee. She was the last person you would think would own a black push-up bra.
“Have you been here?” she asked as we tiptoed into the frilly, superfeminine store, oozing with estrogen. I shook my head. I was too embarrassed. The sight of all those teddies on display made my head spin. Why on earth would anyone want to wear anything like . . . that? Some of it looked uncomfortable, even downright tawdry. Nothing like Catholicism to make me feel guilty for being in a lingerie store!
“They’ve got great stuff,” she insisted. She pulled out drawer after drawer of silky camisoles, boy shorts, tap pants, and thong teddies. I was mortified, yet I couldn’t look away! I fingered a pair of black cotton underwear (I can’t even write the word
panties,
I’m so shy!). I fell in love with an ivory-colored camisole set with embroidered pearl and lace insets. At $14.99, marked down from $39, as I recall, it seemed a real bargain. At Ling’s urging, I bought the set, as well as two pairs of sexy black lace underwear.
They sat in my dresser drawer for months. I couldn’t imagine what I would tell my mother if she ever saw them. “They feel
dirty,
” I explained to my girlfriend later. And I got all neurotic over it for nothing. When my mother saw my new lingerie, she said nothing but “Oh, how pretty!”
Still, I was always skeptical of paying premium for good lingerie. Good bargain shopper that I am, I liked buying my bras 90 percent off at the outlet mall rather than paying full price for scraps of nylon and lace. And even as much as I want to be the La Petite Coquette girl, the Agent Provocateur chick, I’m still the fourteen-dollar-half-price–Calvin Klein lady.
Revelation came when I was shopping with Karen, the girl who doesn’t even wear undies. She was wearing a beautiful nude strapless bra as she zipped in and out of Dior dresses. I was so impressed with what it did for her bust that I was driven to finally invest in my own fab bra. I was thirty-one years old and I was overdue. I treated myself to a gorgeous push-up bra for fifty dollars from the French lingerie line Chantelle. Unlike my other bras, the straps didn’t bunch or fall, and it gave me a nice clean silhouette under even the thinnest T-shirts. I was hooked. While I’ve learned to appreciate designer underwear, I still can’t go the next step and embrace the full-on-vixen thing. Lately, fashionistas like Karen are advocating going commando as an alternative to the annoying thong-in-the-bum-crack problem or visible panty lines. I’m still skeptical. Maybe I’ll break down later, as I always seem to at some point. But for now, it just seems way too naughty for my taste. And I don’t want to suffer the fate of Paris Hilton and
Basic Instinct
my way out of a car anytime soon!
Boob Job
KAREN
I hate underwear. I find it restricting, constraining, and uncomfortable. I like to be free, to breathe without fabric, underwires, and elastic in my way. I do wear it for show, however, and when I do, I go all-out. But that’s beside the point. I resisted wearing bras for as long as I could growing up. I finally caved when my tennis coach suggested my mother get me something because all that running on the court led to distracting breast floppage during matches (one of the most mortifying hours of my life). To this day I try to get away with avoiding them as much as possible. The problem is, I do not have the perky 34Bs I once did. Gravity, sadly, has taken its toll.
After seeing a photo of myself—where I wasn’t wearing a bra—I was sick. My “girls” were practically sagging to my belly button. At that moment I decided to suck it up and buy some boob gear. I headed to La Petite Coquette, the swanky lingerie store near my home, where a woman measured me properly, tightened the straps just so, and showed me how to get the most support out of a bra. My breasts looked so round and good that it didn’t bother me to spend $70, even $80 on a piece of lace and well-constructed underwire. It felt racy, dangerous, and indulgent. Soon enough, however, I stopped wearing the bras. They became a hassle. Yes, I liked what they did for my chest, but I always felt the presence of the bra against my skin. It didn’t seem natural. So I gave up.
Until I visited Alice Cadolle in Paris, one of the most luxurious lingerie shops in the world, first started by Herminie Cadolle, who invented the bra in the late 1800s. Couture lingerie! Custom-made pieces for the rich and international jet set. Now, I am neither rich nor international. But I was twenty-eight years old and in desperate need of help. If I didn’t find a bra I liked, my breasts would sag more and more as the years went by. I saved a good amount of money and had a fitting. A blonde Frenchwoman, wearing a pink pincushion on her wrist as if it were a watch, took my measurements and handled my breasts with gentle care. “They fall flat,” I was told, as if I needed to hear that! I needed a bra shape to promote them to point upward from the bottom. She asked me what I wanted out of a bra. I thought for a minute and came up with this: something so natural and perfect, I wouldn’t even know it was on me. I was not interested in the ways of seduction—I have my Agent Provocateur for that. Instead, I requested form, fit, and shape. I wanted my girls to look like they did when I was fifteen.
Sketches were made. She talked about where the elastic should be (apparently more in the back, less in the straps is ideal). And we discussed fabric. Silk is not good. It’s not supportive or long-lasting. Lace is better. But nylon netting, somewhat transparent, is best. Obviously, I want the best. We also contemplated color. I went with a plush pinkish nude to match my skin tone. After the visit, hours (actually weeks) of fine craftsmanship went into cutting, fitting, constructing the perfect bra for
moi.
When I finally got it and put it on, it was like a giant white light shone over me, the heavens opened, and the angels sang. My breasts never looked so immaculate, so plump, so fine. With clothes I appeared a good few pounds thinner, at that! I was in awe, so enamored that I didn’t even mind the $700 price tag . . . until I lost the bra on a trip to Florida three months later!
I have been devastated—and braless—ever since.
Let’s Take a Peek into the Fashionista Lingerie Drawer
Thongs—Make sure they’re nice and low for those hiphugger jeans. We love Cosabella. But then, who doesn’t?
Boy-style briefs—No ordinary panties for the true fashionista. We adore ones that have funny sayings all over them, like “Welcome,” “Spoil Me,” and “Ring My Bell.” Or fifties-style ones with the ruffled bottom or a peekaboo bum to reveal tushie cleavage. They are especially cute when worn with a button-down for nights when you’re entertaining your man at home. Target has a great selection at very reasonable prices.
Everyday fashionista bras—They’re utilitarian, and fashionistas know where to find nude bras in all subtle hues in order to find the right one for their skin tone. Lingerie designer Jean Yu is known for that. Though fashionistas appreciate the go-with-anything nude tone, they may make an exception for the leopard print.
Tank tops with built-in bras—All the support, none of the nuisance.
Hanro camisoles—Supercomfy to wear in lieu of a bra.
Nipple tape—To wear underneath all those plunging gowns and backless halters. (Just make sure you pluck stray nipple hairs before sticking it on!)
Sexpot possessions—When fashionistas go vixen, they do it right. Agent Provocateur’s playful pieces are a must when you’re feeling saucy (fringe panties, sequined pasties, lace bras with nipple cutouts), and La Perla’s sexy sophistication is always classic for exotic honeymoons.
Silk nightgowns—Diana Vreeland insisted on getting fitted for her nightgowns. While custom-made couture nightwear is a thing of the past, true fashionistas insist on sleeping in style.