Posts Tagged ‘Lauren Bravo’

Features, Opinion

Why flip-flops are a fashion fail

By laurenbravo on April 17th, 2010
1 comment

wenn5269841.jpgLauren Bravo writes:

So here it is, summer. Overnight we’ve gone from the meandering, half-arsed, do-I-need-a-jacket-or-don’t-I bustlings of spring to full blown, heatstrokey, builders-with-their-tops-off summer. The streets are full of people tentatively walking around in last year’s shorts and sundresses, looking at each other blinkedly as if to say, “this can’t be RIGHT, can it?” and wondering how early is too early for a beer.

But ho, here we are. Another year, another set of sartorial dilemmas to ponder over our Calippos. Will this be the year you actually stick to the regime of bicep dips and can swear off cardigans? Will you find a way of wearing kaftans that looks more Jemima Khan than Demis Roussos? And will you, finally, forgo the flip-flop?

Actually that last one is less a ponderance, more a plea. I am standing here, asking you all very nicely to please, please, not wear flip-flops this summer. Ladies, men (especially men), children, friends, Romans, countrymen, anyone with toes between which to shove bits of plastic; I am begging you. No more flip-flops.

After a short stint on Wikipedia I’ve been unable to find a name for the phobia of flip-flops, but as a lifelong sufferer I think the condition deserves recognition. I’m actually having a little trouble writing the words. I might start calling them the Shoes Which Must Not be Named, like the Dark Lord of footwear.

I’m not alone in this either. Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon in 30 Rock, who may as well be crowned official Queen of All Womankind for her neo-feminist philosophy and championing of donut consumption, notably hates flip-flops. She calls them “gross”. I call them a total waste of a shoe opportunity.

Flip-flops are a non-choice. With the galaxy of beautiful footwear that exists in the world, I just can’t fathom why anyone chooses to finish off a nice outfit with a pair of flip-flops. It’s like putting on couture then carrying your gubbins around in a Somerfield carrier bag. And it doesn’t matter how dainty and bejewelled your pair might be – as far as I’m concerned, there just isn’t enough material to make them an item of style. It’s the same reason wearing a bikini to an awards ceremony will never land you in Vogue.

You might think this is a foot-revulsion thing. But while I’ll admit that the sight of a bloke’s hairy toes isn’t one that rouses a passionate appetite, I am not a footist. Feet are fine. But the unnatural parting of the toes with that little bit of rubber, or leather, or plastic suddenly turns the foot into a thing of horror. They are, to all intents and purposes, foot floss. Imagine if we all started going around with bits of string looped around just our armpits, or… well, I’ll leave you to think of your own crevices.

Then there’s the debilitating factor. It’s a tricky one, this, because of course we wear plenty of other stupid shoes. We wear shoes that make us trot along like a pony, shoes that we can only wear when sitting down, shoes that turn us into limping, snivelling, barefooted fools. I have just spent a week learning to walk down stairs in a pair of clogs without stacking it and ripping off the banister. But those shoes don’t pretend to be anything other than challenging; we know what we are getting ourselves into. Flip-flops, on the other hand, masquerade as something comfortable. They pretend to be an easy option for swollen summer feet, but when you factor in the blister trackmarks and the muscle work involved in keeping the damn things on, they end up in the top quartile of effortful wearing along with sarongs and crinolines.

Plus, you can’t run in flip-flops. You have to do an undignified lollop, with the slippy-slappy soundtrack to match. I have it on pretty good authority that nobody in flip-flops has ever successfully run after and caught a shoplifter. Next time you’re debating a summer shoe choice, it might be helpful to ask the question: “if I get mugged today, which pair would best help me disarm the thief?”

But all that aside, the fact of the matter is that, as we’ve already shown you, this season is full of gorgeous shoes. We have candy colours, stacked heels, Mary-Janes, boots, spindle heels, chunky sandals, brogues, tassels, loafers, wedges, pumps, bows, bells and whistles. We’re even allowed to wear some of them with socks. We have everything our feet could ask for (almost – I lied about the whistles). We have no excuse for wearing flip-flops.

So do your wardrobe justice and throw away the foot floss this year. And for all of you coming to beat me up on behalf of the flip-flop devotees everywhere, don’t bother. You’ll never catch me. Put some proper shoes on and you might have a chance.

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Features, Opinion

Why ginger is the new black

By Andrea Petrou on February 18th, 2010
3 comments

Nicola Roberts

Lauren Bravo writes: Auburn. Copper. Flame-haired. Carrot-top. Titian. Marmalade. Or just plain ginger. Whatever you call it, there’s no escaping it right now. Red hair is having a moment.

Such is the audacious nature of the fashion industry that it can commandeer a naturally-occurring ratio involving high levels of pigment pheomelanin and low levels of pigment eumelanin (thanks Wikipedia) and make it a ‘trend’ – it’s sort of weirdly akin to making massive noses fashionable, or declaring that this season, it’s all about people who can roll their tongues. Yar boo sucks to you, non-rollers! But then, as I’ve been hammering home for a few weeks now, fashion is mental. So we must accept and celebrate; and boy, do the redheads deserve it.

As flagrant and unjustified as any other form of colour prejudice, ‘gingerism’ still somehow manages to slip under the net of censorship . In November 2008, a 14-year-old boy was investigated for hate crimes after his ‘Kick a Ginger’ facebook group attracted almost 5000 members, while last December Tesco were forced to stop selling a Christmas card that read “Santa loves all kids. Even the ginger ones” after a furore of complaints from offended customers. It’s about time, then, that a ginger style resurgence tipped the scales the other way.

Of course, there’s a whole host of redheaded role models to turn to for inspiration. In music, red is rapidly becoming the go-to colour to display a bit of individuality in a sea of Pixie Lottealikes. There is no better example than Nicola Roberts, whose swanlike transformation over the last couple of years has been a fantastic tribute to the power of pussy bows and staying pale (see also: Emma Pilsbury, Glee). And for those of us who didn’t climb out of the right gene pool, there’s just as good an impetus to fake it – when Florence Welch took to the stage at the Brits on Tuesday night, she had a nation of mousy women mentally reaching for the Schwarzkopf.

Look too at all the sexy ginger cartoon characters that the world of entertainment has produced over the years. Wilma Flintstone. Daphne from Scooby Doo. Jessica Rabbit. Lois Griffin in Family Guy. Arial in The Little Mermaid. Princess Fiona in Shrek. The colour is synonymous with sass. The blonde girl gets tied to the railway tracks, the redhead is the one who cuts her free and kicks her captor in the balls. From Boudica to Elizabeth I to Anne of Green Gables, the association between flaming follicles and a fiery temperament is ingrained in cultural history. But where blondes and brunettes have for years been shoe-horned into stereotypes – one fun-loving and frivolous, the other sultry and smart – redheads provide an intriguing alternative, characterised most by a passionate unpredictability.

Meanwhile, in the world of fashion titian hair tends to denote otherworldliness – think of Lily Cole’s china doll features, or Karen Elson’s sexy alien aesthetic. Then there’s Grace Coddington, formidable Creative Director of US Vogue and the unassuming star of last year’s documentary The September Issue. As you so often find with those in the very upper echelons of the fashion industry, she dresses as though she doesn’t like clothes – next to Anna Wintour’s pin-neat tailored dresses and cardigans, Coddington’s baggy black shirts and trousers make her look like a ‘before’ on How to Look Good Naked. But her creativity is evident nonetheless; it’s in her hair. A sheet of electric auburn frizz, it is the hair of a Pre-Raphaelite model, not a runway model. And by being quite determinedly anti-fashion, it somehow manages to be the most fashionable hair out there.

You’d be forgiven for thinking that for redheads, the world of style is fraught with potential faux-pas. Don’t wear pink! Don’t wear orange! Steer clear of red lipstick! And blusher! Don’t wear anything too bold, your head is bright enough… but don’t dress all in black either, you’ll look like a secondary school drama teacher. In fact, best just stick to green. Wear as much green as you can get your hands on. But try to avoid looking too much like Christmas. Good luck!

But like any supposed style ‘rule’, these are made to be trampled on. As the former flatmate of three redheaded women, I know they can rock whatever colour they choose to (except maybe yellow – but then no one can wear yellow). As my titian friend Tara puts it, “Being ginger is great, if you’re prepared to stand out. It’s a permanent accessory, a bit like constantly wearing an outlandish hat… Of course, if you get bored you can always put an actual hat on.” Meanwhile, my Australian friend Meg claims the secret to her redhead happiness was learning to stay pale in a country full of mahogany tans. “I got second degree burns one summer when I was 10, and had to face the fact that sunblock was going to be a big part of my life. Once you accept that, you can get on with making the most of being a rarity.”

And there is nothing fashion loves more than a rarity. It’s official – this season, a recessive gene on chromosome 16 is the new black.



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Features, Opinion

Lauren Bravo tells us what maketh the rock chick

By Andrea Petrou on February 11th, 2010
2 comments

Taylor Momsen

Lauren Bravo writes: She’s one of fashion’s favourite mythical figures, along with the woman who actually has a capsule wardrobe and Mariah Carey’s ‘stylist’. She reappears in some shape or form every season, manifested in leather jackets, slashed t-shirts and smudgy eyeliner. She’s a household name, bandied around in fashion houses and ladies’ loos alike.

But she rarely delivers everything she promises (supposedly because she’s hanging out backstage with Iron Maiden; really because she’s made up by magazine editors with no imagination). She’s the ‘rock chick’: three parts reputation to one part nifty alliteration.

The tricky thing about rock chick as a trend is that, like many other mythical beings, as soon as you lay claim to it, it doesn’t exist anymore. Nobody who is actually a rock chick would ever use the term ‘rock chick’. It’s a linguistical rip in the space/time/style continuum. Just as nobody who calls themselves ‘kooky’ ever really is (see also: quirky’, and ‘I just rolled out of bed and threw this on’), any girl who sums up her style as ‘rock chick’ generally hasn’t been any nearer a moshpit than Medium level on Guitar Hero III.

So what maketh the rock chick? If we’re following the fashion definition, there are some basic ingredients:

Leather. In jacket form if you’re a novice; in trouser form if you’re a divorcee who’s just finished at Slimmer’s World.

Studs and chains. This season especially, studs and chains are embellishment of choice. Think of it as the pain-free alternative to facial piercing.

Band t-shirts. Here I feel duty-bound to repeat the old adage – if you can’t sing at least three songs by the band, you CANNOT WEAR THE T-SHIRT.

Eyeliner. In fash mag speak, this should look like ‘last night’s make-up’ (ie. be crumbling down your face, and giving you those little black globules of sleep in the corners. Nice). Because rock chicks are too busy doing debauched things on tour buses to use a cleansing wipe.

Ripped tights. A man once chased me all the way up Tottenham Court Road, just to tell me I had a ladder in my tights. He didn’t get the grateful response he seemed to expect – instead, I snapped back, “Yeah, SO? I am AWARE. What do you want me to DO, run home and change? It’s a LADDER, it’s not like my BOOB is hanging out.” I realise in hindsight that my reaction was wrong. I should have calmly told him I was ‘channelling rock chick’.

So I’ve come to believe that fashion’s obsession with the rock chick is a question of good PR on behalf of the whole industry. Because fashion types tend to be regarded as uptight, controlling, slaves to perfection (does Anna Wintour’s hair ever move? Have you seen it?); and rock chick is the antidote to that.

The rock chick stays out all night, drinks beer, not champagne, dances until she’s sweaty and eats a kebab on the way home. So as a form of damage limitation on their image, fashion people have commandeered her and repackaged her as their own creation. She is ‘dishevelled’ (messy), she is ‘nonchalant’ (doesn’t give a rat’s bottom) and she is ‘full of attitude’ (might throw an amp at your head).

And it’s easy to keep on believing in the rock chick, because there are plenty of celebrity purveyors of the myth. Kate Moss is the classic – she dates indie musicians! She goes to Glastonbury! She’s always got a fag on! But Kate’s cover is blown each time she opens her mouth, and instead of the whiskey-soaked growl of a true rocker, out comes the squeaky bleat of a Croydon schoolgirl.

Then there’s Amy Winehouse, who was perhaps one of the most authentic poster girls they had, until her rockabilly aesthetic passed out of fashion favour and her St Lucia rehab stint made her hair go crap. The most successful pretender to the throne currently seems to be Taylor Momsen – the precocious little upstart who has earned her place in rock chick mythology by playing Jenny, the ‘edgy one’ on Gossip Girl.

Overlooking the fact that calling someone a rock chick for being the ‘edgy one’ on Gossip Girl is like giving someone a Nobel Prize for being the ‘clever one’ on Big Brother, Momsen’s look is a checklist of rock chick accoutrements. Ripped tights, week-old eyeliner, tangled nest of peroxide extensions. She is also, however, the face of New Look S/S 2010 – a nice move on the store’s part, but for Taylor it’s about a 1.5 on the scale of credible rock and roll moves, just above Iggy Pop on the insurance billboards and John Lydon advertising that butter.

So you can’t help but wonder, is Ms Momsen just another in the long line of fashion-created ‘rock chicks’ that we’re meant to follow blithely with our kohl pencils and ‘I’m with the band’ t-shirts, until she gets bored and Rachel Zoe attacks her? Just remember this, ladies – every time you say you don’t believe in rock chicks, a rock chick somewhere DIES. Whether that’s a good thing or not, I’ll leave you to decide.



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Features, Opinion

Why we should all believe in fashion fate

By Andrea Petrou on February 8th, 2010
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Clothes rail.jpg

Lauren Bravo writes:

I am not a superstitious person. I will walk under ladders. I take great delight in opening umbrellas indoors. I will put shoes on tables, open crisp packets upside down and gleefully skip around safe in the belief that a piano won’t suddenly fall from the sky and crush me under the weight of cosmic misfortune. I stopped believing horoscopes after Shelley Von Strunkel told me I was going to fail my A-levels, causing me a week of panic and the initial moves towards an alternative career as a welder.

No, I am not superstitious. Except, that is, for in one crucial area of life. Shopping.

As anyone who has recently ventured up a British high street will be aware, shopping isn’t the easy, breezy experience it used to be (in, say, the 1830s). For one thing, there’s the eternal sizing debate, which Andrea’s been exploring this past week with her denim inbetweener campaign (click here to complete our ShinyStyle size survey). When you have to make time in your schedule for winching yourself out of clothes you’ve managed to get stuck in (not to mention the inevitable newspaper interviews after the firemen have left the changing room with their cutting equipment), it does limit the potential to source perfect garments. And, y’know, sleep and things.

Then there’s the competitive element. As a general rule, the cheaper you go on the high street, the more aggressive and ruthless the shopping becomes. This is a result of what I like to term the “Treasure Theory”; that nagging feeling, as you stand and look round a crowded store full of discarded sweatpants and unseasonable kaftan tops, that somewhere in there exists a garment which could change your life.

It’s the logic that lies behind shops like TK Maxx and Matalan, convincing us that if we rummage for long enough, and use enough handbag force to elbow other shoppers out of our way, we will find the bargainous Chanel-alike among the sea of lamé prom dresses and pvc jackets. The only thing separating us from that item of dreams is a healthy dose of fashion fate.

Yes, one should never underestimate the role of destiny in shopping. I can’t be the only one who, when debating a purchase, hears the voice of Doris Day drift under the changing room door… “Que Sera, Sera… whatever will be, will be…”. How many times have you seen your perfect skirt being carried by somebody else, and followed them around the shop like a dog, hissing ‘drop it! Drop IT!’? How many times have you justified a pricey purchase with the fact that it is still there in your size, and so it is Meant to Be? How many times have you very nearly worn a dress, then changed on instinct at the last minute, only to turn up at an event finding your ex’s new girlfriend in the dress you nearly wore? That, my friends, is fashion fate.

I’ve suffered my fair share of blows, but last week, shopping destiny dealt me a good hand. Back in December I had seen a studded black jacket in H&M. I had picked it up, gone ‘ooh’, been told by my friend that it felt like lizard scales and was therefore creepy, and put it back on the rail. I thought no more of it. But then, as the days passed, I started to find this jacket suddenly entering my thoughts. It would pop into my mind as I stood in front of the wardrobe every morning. I would think “if I had that studded jacket, I could wear it with that. If I had that studded jacket, it would look perfect with this”, and so on, until I had pretty much convinced myself that the studded jacket was the key to my future happiness.

So then began a mad pursuit of the studded jacket across every H&M in London. Oxford Circus had sold out, Marble Arch had sold out, Regent Street only had it in a size 8. Everywhere I enquired, I got sad, pitying head-shakes, as though the shop assistants knew they were denying me outfit perfection. I trudged the streets for days, from store to store. I started hallucinating studded jackets, seeing them in mirrors and window reflections and draped over small children on buses. Eventually, I gave up and resigned myself to that fact that the studded jacket was not meant to be in my life.

THEN, several weeks later, thoughts of studded jackets entirely out of my head, I was doing a quick after-work shop dash and decided to pop into H&M to buy some earrings. I very nearly didn’t, as I was late, but something in my gut told me to go in (either fate, or a Prêt meatball wrap). So I did, and there, glinting at me across the store, I saw it. It wasn’t even on a hanger, it was just flung across the top of a rail, looking lonely. As I ran towards it, arms outstretched, I convinced myself it wouldn’t be my size. “It will be the ruddy size 8, don’t get your hopes up”, I thought. So imagine my joy when I got there, clutched it in my sweaty palms and discovered it WAS my size! Fashion fate was on my side for once, and the key to styling happiness was finally mine! Oh, wondrous kismet!

(Actually it turns out the jacket doesn’t go with as many things as I thought it would. It’s also a bit too long, and really does feel like lizard skin. But hey, I wouldn’t have swapped that moment for anything).



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Features, Opinion

Why occasional dressing doesn’t suit everyone

By Andrea Petrou on January 21st, 2010
4 comments

chloe.jpg
Lauren Bravo writes: Poor Chloe Sevigny. She turns out at the Golden Globes in a cascade of silk ruffles, looking every inch the fashion-forward Hollywood star. She wins Best Actress in a TV Drama for her role in Big Love.

She makes her way to the stage, full of poise and old-world glamour, in front of an admiring audience of industry names. And then, at the last vital moment, Rrrrriiiiiiiiiip! Some git tears half her dress off. Thus we learn the first rule of occasion dressing: whatever can go wrong, will go wrong. Especially if you’re on camera.

I felt for Chloe, particularly as I’ve experienced her wardrobe malfunction myself. Admittedly mine occurred at my high school prom, not in front of the Hollywood Foreign Press and a million television viewers, but it was still traumatic.

I spent £150 on a chiffony creation from Monsoon, the kind you picture yourself being proposed to in, then promptly put my heel through the hem as I got out of the car in the school drive. To add insult to embarrassment, it was quickly revealed that three other girls had turned up in the same dress – but hey, I was the only one with a gaping hole…

Some girls thrive on occasion dressing. They’re usually, as it happens, the girls who keep it low-key the rest of the time. The jeans-and-jumpers girls. All year it’s sensible coats, denim and comfy separates, then at the whiff of an invitation, ooh, out come lithe limbs poured into something slinky, satiny and elegant. They glide around, part Audrey Hepburn, part Disney Princess, and the impact is made all the more striking by its contrast to their usual appearance.

They don’t spill, their make-up doesn’t smudge, their underwear doesn’t show, and they don’t go all scarlet and drippy after a turn on the dancefloor. They are the girls formal events are designed for. I am not one of these girls.

No, I realised many, many years ago that I can’t do occasion dressing. Other people will be watching awards season with joy, cooing at the dresses and the flawless red carpet elegance, but I will spend it shouting “HOW? How are you DOING that??” at a variety of magazine spreads. And yet, every time an occasion presents itself, I still have a brief moment of delusion. “Maybe this time”, I think, “I’ll pull it off. I’ll find something classy, and I’ll look classy in it, and I’ll still be feeling classy when they carry me out of the marquee at 4am.”

It’s not an aversion to dressing up, you understand – In fact I have a tendency to be chronically overdressed for everyday life. I will wear sequins to the pub, cocktail dresses to family barbecues and stilettos to Tesco. But give me a bonafide ooccasion, something that actually demands a bit of sartorial effort, and I go to pieces. I become a one-woman style disaster zone.

The routine generally goes something like this: I won’t be able to find/afford/fit into a suitable dress. So I will spend three weeks in a consumer frenzy, then the day before buy something a size too small, in a colour I hate, that accommodates no bra known to man. I will then attempt something radical with my hair, which will go wrong, requiring me to obliterate the whole thing with straighteners, then wet it to stop it looking too straight, then straighten it to stop it looking too wet.

After a week on grapes and green tea I will crack, eat a burrito, and not be able to do the zip up on the too-small-anyway dress. After half an hour of flatmate-assisted zip warfare I will finally be assembled, but sweaty from effort, which will then demand another hair re-straighten. I will top off the look with a pair of shoes that cripple me, a massive bag with my alternative flat shoes in it, and a coat that doesn’t go. One of my false eyelashes will come unstuck on the bus. I will appear in at least 170 photos in the act of hitching up my dress, then spill kebab juice down it on the way home. That, ladies, is how I do occasion dressing.

So I hope Ms Sevigny wasn’t too distraught after her fashion faux-pas. After all, there’s nothing like a big shiny award to distract from a dress disaster – if I can somehow get myself nominated fro a Brit, maybe that will be my next trick.



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Features, Opinion

How to be a sensible sale shopper

By Andrea Petrou on January 4th, 2010
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shop.jpg
Lauren Bravo writes:
I tried to go sales shopping yesterday. It didn’t go very well. Because what I’d forgotten, indeed what I forget every year, is that sales shopping doesn’t agree with me (not does dairy, but that hasn’t stopped me from polishing off a whole wedge of stilton). Sales turn me into a crazed, handbag-swinging monster, blinded by sequins and prone to hallucinations in which I am a size six and look alluring in metallic jumper dresses. Every sale-shopping expedition I’ve been on in the last few years has featured me elbowing a pensioner, crying in a changing room, buying a sensible pair of pyjama bottoms and vowing never to do it again. But sadly, like the stilton, it’s a resolution easily made and easily crumbled.

With up to 12 million bargain-hunters hitting the shops this Boxing Day, a 20 per cent rise on 2008 sales, it seems I’m not the only one who is easily seduced by the big red signs. It only takes a whisper of the magic R-word, recession, to have us stocking up on cut-price goodies like they’re going out of fashion (which of course, they are).

But despite the figures, Boxing Day reductions don’t pack quite the punch they once did, because we are now living in the era of the perpetual sale. It’s a rare shop on the high street that doesn’t have a sad little clutch of half-price pants and linen blouses in a corner somewhere, all of the time. Nowadays I walk into shops expecting a sale and get genuinely narked if I don’t find one. We have January sales, spring sales, pre-summer sales, summer sales, back to school sales, pre-Christmas sales and pre-sale sales. My friend Liz derides the buying of any non-sale item as being “against her religion”.

I’ve come to believe that the sale/non-sale debate is not about how much money you have, but rather your attitude to spending it. The old dilemma: would you rather have one really, really nice thing for lots of money, or loads of tacky or faddy or frilly or falling apart or doesn’t-quite-fit things for the same amount? Common sense and fashion editors would have us believe it’s the former – to forgo the sales and instead spend all you can on one standout piece, like a fantastic leather jacket or the perfect pair of jeans, is a smart move. You’re making an investment you will never regret. But how many times have we bought the super-luxe coat and left it in the wardrobe to stroke fondly once a week, while we carry on wearing the tatty jacket that cost us £15 in an H&M sale many moons ago?

There are two main approaches to sale shopping. There’s the sensible one (or ‘the Mum Method’), in which you keep an eye on everything you like in the weeks leading up to Christmas, don’t buy any of them, then pray that you’ll magically find them half price in the sale. This approach saves you money, but there are some considerable downsides: 1) it is boring. 2) You probably won’t find them half price in the sale, or at least not in your size, and 3) while you’re waiting for them to be reduced, you will miss at least four social occasions when you would have worn them; as soon as you do buy them, you will suddenly never have cause to wear them ever again.

Then there’s the non-sensible approach. You know how that one goes – like a nightmare sequence in a Disney film, all the items you’ve never even considered before all suddenly leap off the racks and start twirling around, cooing “buy me… buy meeee”. They’re all wildly impractical, don’t go together, don’t go with anything else you own, and make you look vaguely like a drag version of an X-factor contestant. But more importantly, they are all £7.

If possible it is probably best to combine the two approaches, like a sensible mum with a penchant for the odd sequinned puffball. Or just stick to the following advice: if you wouldn’t have looked twice at it before Christmas, don’t pick it up now just because it’s cheap. There is a reason nobody bought any of those spangled jumper dresses, and that reason will become oh-so-apparent once you put it on in the safety of your own bedroom. Take plenty of water and protein-rich snacks, and know when to have a little sit down. And if the whole experience gets too much, you can’t go wrong with a nice pair of pyjama bottoms. Good luck.



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Features, Opinion

Top Five Festive Fashion Faux-Pas

By Andrea Petrou on December 17th, 2009
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Linds santa.jpg
Lauren Bravo writes:
Velvet.
Ah, velvet. I feel unfair even including this one, because velvet is, really, the official fabric of Christmas. It has maximum cosy factor, it looks too sumptuous to wear most of the rest of the year, and it always makes one feel vaguely like royalty. If we could just spend the entire festive season swishing about in long velvet cloaks, I would be beyond happy.

But as it is, velvet-wearing is one of the hardest yuletide activities. Because made into actual clothes, rather than nativity costumes, it tends to fall into two camps – worn loose, you’re an ageing drama teacher, worn fitted you’re an overstuffed armchair. The choice is yours (but I know which allows for more mince pie consumption).

Novelty earrings.
It’s always the people you least suspect that turn out to be closeted novelty earring wearers. This phenomenon also stems to those who tie tinsel round their pony tail, or round their neck, or round their cat’s neck, or perhaps round their steering wheel, lest any left-turn slip-by uninjected with seasonal joy.

Novelty-earring wearers (and for unpierced gentlemen, the sporter of the light-up snowman tie) are generally those who the rest of the year round wouldn’t say boo to an accessories goose, the kind who consider beige a bit flamboyant and think BBC newsreaders are getting too racy. Let all this suppressed desire for glitter build-up steadily over an 11-month period, and kablam! They’ll be the ones in flashing fairy wings singing “I Am What I Am” at the karaoke buffet.

“Sexy” Santas.
I’d like to blame Mean Girls, but in truth I’m sure the tradition of the sexy santa (see also: sexy elf, raunchy reindeer, flirty fairy and all variations thereupon) has existed for as long as there have been office parties to get drunk at and photocopiers to sit on. It needs to be outlawed, partly because of feminism but mainly because Christmas is a time for thermals, third helpings of trifle, and making peace with your own thighs. Nobody should have to be sexy at Christmas; it’s effort enough to look fetching in a cracker hat. And we all know that Mrs Clause would never have looked like Rachel McAdams anyway – she would have sensible shoes and a bottom the size of Belguim.

(Too much) Red
Yes, yes, it’s the colour of the season. It’s the colour of a robin’s breast, Rudolph’s nose, a Louboutin sole. We get it. And we all know the power of a sweep of scarlet lipstick or a ruby slipper to lift a dreary outfit. But as with marzipan and Cliff Richard, in December it should be applied sparingly. Too much red at Christmas can just look so literal, like turning up dressed as a turkey or the baby Jesus. If you’re worried you might be overdoing it, try this simple test: look into a mirror and sing, “I’ve never seen you looking so lovely as you did tonight…never seen you shine so bright…” If the face of Chris de Burgh flashes up before you, you need to get changed.

Woollens.
By now there is no point contesting the status of the Christmas jumper. It is as tightly woven into the fabric of the festive season as massive tins of Quality Street and the bumper issues of the Radio Times. It has flitted from genuine to ironic, via Colin Firth and back again, and now it is an institution. Moreover, knitwear is back on the fashion map in a big way – this season, not only are we required to wear woollens, we’re meant to be loading them on in layers. So far, so snuggly.

But the snag is, while jumpers cut a dash in snowy parks and on long, rustic walks up mountaintops, most of our Christmases aren’t spent there, are they? They’re spent on the sofa in central-heated living rooms, and in crowded bars, and standing in people’s armpits on the tube. Which, combined with a few glasses of sherry, makes for some frankly unfestive red-faced perspiration. Call it ‘santa sweat’, if you must. Or just save the jumpers for the snow.

So there you have it, festive fashionistas – go forth, eat, drink and be merry. But if at any point you unwrap a sexy, red, velvet jumper with matching tinsel earrings, hope that they kept the receipt.



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Features, Opinion

Why classic clothes should remain at the back of the wardrobe

By Andrea Petrou on December 3rd, 2009
3 comments

classic.jpgLauren Bravo writes: There are few places I like to see the word ‘classic’. Classic cars, Penguin Classics, maybe a classic episode of Have I Got News For You. But generally, any place you find the word ‘classic’ is not a place I want to be. ‘Classic’ denotes dull. ‘Classic’ means “first thing we came up with, couldn’t be arsed to make it more exciting”. That’s how it is with crisps, that’s how it is with shower gel and that’s how it is with clothes. Yes, this week I would like to launch the backlash on ‘classic’ wardrobe items – or, as the phenomenon shall be known, The Curse of the Plain White Shirt.

It’s one of those oh-so-helpful nuggets of advice that we girls are raised on, along with rubbing half a lemon on your elbows and wearing Vaseline with socks to bed. Women’s magazines have been peddling this myth for decades. For some, at the Woman’s Weekly/Essentials/Good Housekeeping end of the scale, it’s their bread and butter, making an appearance on a pretty much monthly basis; but even the savvier glossies are guilty of dredging it up from time to time. The legend goes something like this: “Every woman should own a plain white shirt. That is the secret of happiness.”

“Furthermore,” the myth continues, “every well-dressed wardrobe should be built on a foundation of ‘classic’ items (or, if they’re really devout, they’ll use that other word, the one that’s worse than classic – ‘basic’. Yeuch). These classic items should ideally be as expensive as you can afford, and as boring as you can bear. In addition to the plain white shirt, you must have: a beige trench coat, a grey cashmere sweater, a pair of straight-cut jeans, and a black shift dress. Then, and only then, will you be complete as a woman.”

So colossal is the wrongness of this theory that I’m not quite sure where to start, but the white shirt seems as good a place as any. There are 30 million women in the world, and of those 30 million, about 12 look good in a plain white shirt. For the rest of us, the results veer along an increasingly unflattering spectrum from School Prefect to Apprentice Contestant, via Checkout Assistant in BHS. White shirts present a minefield of staining risks, gaping issues and the eternal bra conundrum (the magazines say flesh coloured, but then the magazines HATE US. Who should we trust?).

Likewise the trench coat. A better suggestion, maybe, if we could have it in teal, or purple, or a nice cheery red. But no, ‘classic’ items tend to occupy a narrow colour palette. That is, beige. Beige and its deformed sisters, fawn, camel and stone. While we all have occasional mac fantasies (I favour Big Mac fantasies), of running through Parisian streets in pursuit of a lost balloon or something equally charming, we know the truth. The only time you’ll ever have fun in a trench coat is when you’re naked underneath it on someone’s doorstep. Or if you’re a spy.

Then there’s the black shift dress, an item we can thank Audrey Hepburn for bestowing on us and Princess Di for perpetuating. Shift dresses are a nice idea. So chic! So subtle yet sexy! What a shame then, that they appear not to have been designed to clothe the female figure but an Ikea flatpack shelving unit. Shift dresses hug the bits you want to forget, hang over the bits you want to hug, and squeeze that little pocket of underarm flab out to say hello when you thought you’d banished it forever.

There is also something unavoidably smug about wearing a shift dress. However much you try to Gok it up with jazzy accessories, it will always look uncomfortably corporate. It’s a look that says ‘I head up a successful sales team, do yoga in my lunch hour, bake nutritious dishes for my five pristine children and never chip a nail on my Blackberry’. And until I either accomplish all of those things, or become Audrey Hepburn, it’s a ‘classic’ I won’t be investing in one any time soon.

So the magazines can try as they might, I am not falling for it. Happiness takes many different forms, but I’m pretty sure I can live a long and fulfilling life without needing a plain white shirt in it. The day a ‘classic’ garment enters my wardrobe will be the day I forget how to have fun. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to rub lemons on my elbows and have an early night. Pip pip.



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Opinion

Why cleavage is never cool

By Andrea Petrou on November 5th, 2009
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Lauren Bravo writes:
holly-willoughby.jpgFashion is fickle. We all know this. Styles flit in and out of favour on the merry-go-round, enjoying their moment of glory then laying low until they can work their way back into our wardrobes. But while most trends, however unlikely, will get dragged into the spotlight at some point or other (hello, jodhpurs), there are some things that will just never quite manage it. Fleeces. Double denim. Nude tights. And, my own particular burden – cleavage.

Cleavage will never be cool. Despite all of Vivienne Westwood’s sterling efforts, no matter how much burlesque devotees try to bring back corseting, however many times Scarlett Johansson bends over in a movie, cleavage will always be the embarrassing auntie of fashion.

Cleavage takes an LBD from a cocktail bar to the Rover’s Return. A couple of cup sizes can be the difference between sexy and slutty, between Carrie Bradshaw and Carry On.

Of course, cleavage has had its champions over the years. Think of Jayne Mansfield in The Girl Can’t Help It, sashaying her way across that restaurant, her bullet bra leading the way like two guided missiles. But Jayne was about gaudy sex appeal, not style. In an era of elegant icons like Audrey Hepburn and Grace Kelly, Mansfield’s extreme proportions were a guilty pleasure.

Likewise, modern day breasts have their celebrity cheerleaders. Of course they’re a varied lot – at the good end of the scale we have Salma Hayek, Mad Men’s Christina Hendricks, and the aforementioned Scarlett.

Luscious women who make cleavage look as at home on the red carpet as it does in a Yates’ Wine Lodge. Then there’s the bad end of the spectrum, where we find Jordan, Chantelle Houghton, Victoria Beckham’s gravity-defying melons, and 98 per cent of everyone at the British Soap Awards.

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