After writing about how leggings are not pants and other fashion musings, I received some great encouragement to keep the humor going. I don’t mean to be an offensive, judgmental blogger, but I do have comical style thoughts that pop into my head. I find them quite entertaining, and I hope you do, too. So, here are my latest. I hope they give you a chuckle or two.
Hairspray is not perfume.
It’s wonderful that beauty products have come a long way. If you’re my age or older, you can remember a time when hair spray used to stink. Nowadays, hairspray smells fruity, botanical or like the tropics. But that doesn’t mean it qualifies as perfume, ladies. Hey, I love Morrocon Oil as much as the next gal, but it shouldn’t be your signature fragrance. Stop by the Neiman Marcus cosmetic counter and get yourself a little Dior. You’ll thank me later when you’re getting laid.
Joan Crawford’s eyebrows do not belong on a man.
Honestly, Joan Crawford’s eyebrows do not belong on a woman, either. I’m glad today’s modern man is taking an interest in his looks. A well-groomed man does attract my eye. But a man with arch-shaped eyebrows belongs in a John Waters film. Keep ’em groomed, fellas, but do so without the arch. You’ll thank me later when you’re getting laid.
A pimp hat is still a pimp hat even if the label says Marc Jacobs.
Ugh. By now you should know how irritated I am with Marc Jacobs. I suspect he’s lost it. I find it insulting that his fall line features a bunch of fuzzy pimp hats that you know have to be priced at well over $300. You want a pimp hat? Go to the party store. But if you wear it in public, I’m laughing at you.
If it’s fake, it’s not fashion.
I can tell when your handbag is fake, and so can everyone else. You absolutely cannot call yourself a fashionista if you’re wearing fake fashion. And if you even attempt to do so, I’m brash enough to revoke your card. If you truly love fashion, you will never EVER buy fake fashion. It’s gross. It’s offensive. It’s beneath you.
Anything less than 20% is not a sale.
I hate when I get an email announcing a 10% off sale. I’m like, really? Ten percent? How the hell is that a sale? Look, if a supermodel won’t get out of bed for less than $10,000 a day, I’m not getting in my car and driving to a store for a savings less than 20%. That’s how I roll.