Style commandments: Thou shall not dress like thy husband

2/2/2006

I celebrated the Chinese New Year this week with my bathtub.

I dipped in Lush Fresh Handmade Cosmetics’ “Youki” bath bomb, named after Youki-Hi, one of the three most beautiful women ever, according to Far East tradition.

Now, I’m not a huge bather. I get bored just sitting there, puckering away in the water. Reading is dangerous because the pages get soggy. And staring at the ceiling can only tide my ADHD over for 47.2 seconds.

But the peach Youki bubbles managed to keep me in the tub for about five minutes, a record. The cypress oil smoothed my skin, even though the jasmine scent did remind me a bit of cheap Walgreens perfume.

I felt as silky as Youki-Hi herself when I was done. Except when the water drained and I saw the tub was stained peach – which raised my blood pressure again and sent me to my hands and knees scrubbing the tile. Now I stink of bleach.

Maybe that’s why they call it the Year of the Dog: because you start it on all fours, whining.

We were 20 minutes late to church on Sunday, but for good reason. I had to fend off a catastrophe.

We were walking out the door when I noticed my husband wearing the same outfit as me. My parents bought us both black and gray T-shirts with the church’s inconspicuous logo on them for Christmas.

Granted, I felt sketch wearing the church’s tee to church anyway (sort of like when you’re shopping at Express and realize the exact outfit you’re wearing is hanging on the mannequin). I should’ve known better.

But matching my man? I’d rather go naked and risk being eternally barred from God’s house.
The male-female clothing duo is a deadly sin. And the overall cheese factor is painful. A fashion sacrifice – so Old-Testament-school.

However, matching your boo in terms of color and style is a definitely. Style seems to be getting simpler (think: American Apparel on Pearl Street, which only sells uni-colored duds).
But there are still a lot of dangerous patterns out there which, if paired carelessly with your partner’s opposing wild pattern, could actually explode and alter the chemicals in the atmosphere. It’s true. A Far Eastern myth, I think.

I bought a new pair of Lux jeans at Urban Outfitters. I adore them because
a.) they actually fit (hurrah!); and
b.) the denim doesn’t stretch out on the bum after two wears, creating the “load” (aka adult diaper) phenomenon.

However, the jeans have two colossal, style-intentional holes in the knees. When my mom saw them, she seriously asked me if I had tripped and fallen.

Photo by Flickr user Puma Booma.

Brittany: More than a pretty picture

Not Brittany. But basically. Photo by Flickr user Mikey Jon Holm.

1/26/2006

For Valentine’s Day last year, my friend Brittany came into work looking all Vegas showgirl. You know, cross-dresser blue eye shadow, blond curls tight like wire coils – and cheeks flushed with shame.

She’d been suckered into some sort of make-over photo shoot with her friends. She thought it’d be fun. Then she caught the mirror and saw JonBenet Ramsey, age 22.

Not even a scouring sponge could de-circus her clown face. Sometimes, nearly one year later, I look at her and think I see traces of the turquoise eyeliner at her lash line.

The photographer immortalized it all on film, and even suggested she send it to her “special someone” for the romantic holiday. Not a chance. You see, Brittany is a natural beauty. She does sport a pink Razr phone, but she also can out-ball any guy. She’s not a spiral curl kinda gal.
A good portrait isn’t as simple as pearls and mascara. It should be a mirror inside the person’s character; the removal of the mask, not caking one on.

Think Glamour Shots of the ’80s. They swathed faces in feather boas, leaned them over a mirror, handed them a red rose or parasol and fuzzed up the lens. All my friends’ Glamour Shots looked the same: nothing like them.

Hello, Napoleon Dynamite. Glamour Shots is still alive and kickin’. There’s a studio in the FlatIrons Crossing Mall in Broomfield, in addition to two Kiddie Kandids (don’t get me started on businesses that intentionally misspell things to sound cutesy; I boycott them on grammatical grounds).

The Broomfield glamour shooters didn’t comment when I inquired, but a search through the company’s online portfolio shows things have at least evolved past the Napoleon Dynamite-style shoot of Uncle Rico (“I could wrap you in some foam, or something billowy?”). The pictures aren’t half-bad, with only a few cowboy hats, sunflowers scattered about and, of course, the traditional red rose clutch.

Still, I’d rather not risk landing in the tabloids under the headline “JonBenet lives – and writes for Boulder’s newspaper.”

I had a great discussion with Erie resident Jen Fellows about “real beauty” this week. The 26-year-old fashion photographer specializes in multi-cultural photos that blend the traditional with modern.

Her most recent photo series features a local woman, part Korean and part Japanese, rocking a traditional kimono on the back of a motorcycle. There’s also a part-Native American woman wearing her ancestor’s necklace and headdress. Instead of war paint, her face is done up Western runway-style (sans turquoise eyeliner).

The photos embody the contradictions that define life. And make it interesting.

“All of my work, I strive for it not to just be a pretty picture, but with some substance,” Fellows says. “When you’re looking into their eyes, there’s something there.”

Fellows says she wants her photos to reflect the spirit of the models and their heritage – and society’s evolving perception of beauty. As cultures and countries blend, it’s about individual charisma, not separate races and ethnicities, she says.

Fellows lives it. She’s part Native American, Russian and Jewish, and is often mistaken for Spanish or Middle-Eastern or Italian, she says.

“Real beauty – what is that?” she says. “To me, it’s what people have inside them and the way they affect the world.”

With a perspective like that, who needs feather boas?

Check out Fellows’ company at www.sanoephotography.com.

Lindsey: 'Beware of peroxide' and other horror stories

1/12/2006

Blond is hotter than brunette. Literally.

My girls and I were at a party when suddenly we smelled something burning. We checked the stove, the fireplace, the microwave.

Then I noticed a flaming wall sconce, its blue wax sprayed across the white wall. Standing obliviously nearby was my sister-in-law, Lindsey. The tip of her ponytail was charred and curling.

Lindsey had dyed her blond hair platinum just a few hours before. I guess that much peroxide is flammable.

Now she’s blond with brown tips.

Lindsey’s hot-head reinforced my decision to go brunette. I was standing near the candle, too, but my dark hair didn’t catch. (Or maybe I just couldn’t tell.)

When I dyed my naturally blond locks espresso in May, it was supposed to be temporary. Now I can’t imagine going light. Maybe brown is more approachable, or maybe I act friendlier, but people are nicer to Brunette Heckel.

My friend Jess insists societal treatment varies with hair color. She conducted an experiment where she went to the bars wearing different colored wigs to help her decide which hair dye to go with. She said she was repulsed by the meaty treatment she received as a blond. She ended up going red. A different kind of fiery.

Masyn Moyer, the owner of my fave hair salon, Urban Pearl, says the latest hair trends echo the ’60s and ’70s: big hair, soft and romantic, teased bouffants. She said more people are getting perms, too.

Eek. Don’t do it, ladies.

I was born with stick-straight hair. In fourth-grade, I got a spiral perm.

A permanent, indeed. It’s like the chemicals mutated my hair follicles. My hair has been spiral-permish ever since. The ’80s live on. My head.

Photo by Flickr user Swamibu.

I'm touchy

I wish this were me, but it is not. Photo from Flickr user dovima_is_devine_II.

1/5/2006

I am a fabric freak.

I own multiple shirts that are hideous, but soft. I recently dumped an entire day`s salary on an Urban Outfitters blazer because the velvet was so luscious, it felt like it was making out with my fingers when I touched it.

My bed is a nest of satin, fur, suede, goose down, fleece and crisp cotton; I couldn`t pick just one. Or even three.

I once brought a handbag into said bed and slept with it on my cheek because the leather felt like butta. I later caught myself walking down the street fondling the purse and murmuring sweet nothings to it. I caressed it until it fell apart, and then I mourned.

Some people are crazy over colors or scents or eras. My style revolves largely around touch.
This has been a life-long thing. I still go to the same family doctor in Loveland that I went to as a kid. When I walk in the door, the nurses and receptionist start laughing.

It`s always the same: “Hey, aren`t you the girl who used to wear slips and petticoats on the outside of her clothes?”

Yes. That is me. Don`t make fun. Slips are silky.

The tale of the traveling shoe (and other bedtime fashion stories)

10/20/2005

I thought I had packing down to an art.

One carry-on, no need to check in the luggage. I planned my wardrobe on a theme. All cool colors and basic styles, as to allow maximum mixing of clothing and overlapping of accessories and eye shadow tones.

Never again.

Immediately off the plane in Albuquerque, N.M., and I busted the heel off my black pump on the airport’s faux-brick floor. The thrifty packer that I was, I’d only brought one pair.

This sent the rest of my day veering out of control, a frenzied shopping quest to replace the shoe before my journalism conference the next morning.

Three blocks from my hotel, I discovered Ruby Shoesday boutique (www.rubyshoe.com). Fell deeply in love with an Audley London pink and gray wedge. It then broke my heart with a price tag that rivaled my car payment.

I called my husband, seeking financial support, but instead he laughed, saying wedges look like cars with a drop kit, or pumps with a gob of mud stuck underneath them.

Plus, he reminded me, they didn’t match my wardrobe theme.

I decided to never again attempt to defeat the Universal Law of Travel that dictates the smaller the traveler, the larger the luggage. I’m going full-out body-bag next trip.

New Mexico has a complex culture of style. On one hand, there are the sexy Audleys.
Then there are the bright colors splashed on every painting, piece of jewelry and, yes, item of clothing. In one shop, I found a rainbow beaded denim jacket. As if that wasn’t gaudy enough, they added fringe. It was the most painful thing I’d ever looked at. Until I turned around and was accosted by an embroidered vest to match.

Then there was me. Just minutes after stepping off the airport shuttle (and onto my busted heel, ouch), a woman asked me where I came from.

I was taken aback. “Do I scream tourist?” I wondered. “And is that a good thing (a la beaded vest) or a bad thing (never seen the heels break off a pair of designer wedges)?”

Back to the airport. I understand that airport travelers are exhausted. They’re fueled by the
empty preservatives of airplane food. They’re paranoid and humiliated after having stripped off their shoes, belts, coats and – is that an underwire bra? – at the security checkpoint.

But the airport is still a public space, i.e. not your bedroom. And the last time I checked, pajamas had not leaked into the mainstream as acceptable day-wear.

On the way home, gate B6 welcomed me with slippers, sweatpants and wrinkly T-shirts. As I sat next to a middle-aged woman wearing a doggie-print PJ top and matching cotton bottoms, I began to think that embroidered vest wasn’t so bad after all.

Photo by Flickr user Jason L. Parks.

Guys and their hats

9/28/2005

Guys love their baseball caps to the point that it’s grotesque.

Apparently I’m attracted to white-baseball-cap-wearers. I don’t know what’s actually on the cap or if there is perhaps a sports team they all commonly root for. But every guy I have ever dated wore a white baseball cap. Heck, even my brother and dad wear white caps.

The white baseball cap has its own set of uniquely disgusting problems. It comes down to this: Guys do not wash their caps. They do not know how, and they do not want to.

Because of this, their nasty hats stink after a while. The odor rivals shin guards (which any soccer player well knows is a scent that can burst a nostril).

One guy actually told me once he didn’t want to wash his because it had “a good luck stain” around the rim.

I had to clarify that his “good luck” was comprised of sweat. And dirt. And hair grease. And everything not nice, and it was all rubbing on his forehead for eight hours a day.

He did not see a problem with that.

My husband has a few caps I’d like to set on fire. Instead, my mom loaned me her baseball-cap washer – some contraption you can place over the hats so they won’t lose their shape when you wash them.

Turns out the contraption doesn’t go in the washing machine. It goes in the dishwasher. Where I put my plates to get clean so I can eat food off of them.

I could imagine the hat filth swishing around the dishwasher with my forks, tainting their prongs, and seeping into the fibers of my water bottle.

Looks like my husband will continue wearing dirty hats.

Good luck to him.

Photo by Flickr user riekhavoc.

Adelaide Jane: Dressin' up

9/22/2005

My friends and I were behind dressing room curtains at Rockin’ Robin’s when tiny Adelaide Jane and her mom arrived.

It was Adelaide’s first ever dress-up party – the 2-month-old’s “initiation” into girlhood. Like when the Lion King held Simba over the cliff and the village animals sang “The Circle of Life.”
Except it was my sorority sister’s infant in a pink gingham dress, clutching her first designer purse, with “Love is a Battlefield” on the jukebox. It was so moving, I almost cried.

Adelaide, too.

Back in the ’80s, when I was the muscle-less ball of baby, my mom said she could only get me to stop fussing by dressing me up in different outfits and taking pictures.

So Sunday evening’s dress-up party at Rockin’ Robins Retro and Resale in Niwot (www.rockinrobins.net) was like a pacifier for me.

It’d been a super rough week. First, I dropped my mascara wand on a public floor and had to spend the rest of the day with lopsided lashes. (Note to self: Wake up five minutes earlier so you don’t have to get ready at work.) Then, I wore my fave vintage pumps to a family picnic in the mountains, and my heel broke off. (Note: Don’t wear pumps hiking.)

But, alas, the Fashion Goddess was watching over me. She guided me to Rockin’ Robin’s where, miraculously, I found those same pumps (and for $38 less).

I also found a chunky blue necklace that looks like one Julie Cooper wore on an episode of “The O.C.” Except mine was 45 years old. And cost $12.

I swore I wasn’t going to buy anything. I also knew I would break that promise.

Robin Abb rents out her consignment store for dress-up parties. After my devastating week, I obviously needed one. So I sent out an emergency Evite to my girlfriends. We had full reign over Abb’s jukebox, lighted dance floor and clothing racks.

We’re talking go-go boots, Kimonos, cowboy-print pants, ’80s prom dresses and even something we found called a “silver sparkle tent” with one pocket. I’ve never seen anything like it before, and I doubt I ever will again.

So there we were, behind the dressing room curtains when Adelaide Jane showed up.
From stall No. 1, my friend Jenelle welcomed Adelaide to the Wonderful World of Dress-Up, looking like a silver-coated fortune teller. I left stall No. 3 sporting a tri-ruffle skirt that I think I owned in fifth grade.

Then, out came Tiffany. Sheepishly. She’d been devoured by a skin-tight red pleather dress that would’ve caused the gals on Colfax to blush. Rockin’ Robin had picked it out for her as a joke.
Tiffany asked Adelaide not to hold it against her. First impressions are sometimes misleading, Tiff said – an important lesson for any future fashionista to know.

I think I saw Adelaide smirk.

Either that, or she needed to be burped.

Photo by Flickr user ohsohappytogether.