The Fashionista is going to attempt to be even more divine than usual by pointing out, and forgiving, the hideous fashion sins she witnessed just this past weekend.
Friday night at Le June, the Fashionista spotted a starlet-who-shall-remain-nameless wearing a micromini with stockings and a garter belt, sans underwear. Can we please let this hideous trend die? It’s been eons since we spied Paris’s or Britney’s privates, so if those fashionable flashers can commit to donning La Perlas, the rest of you have no excuse!
Then on Saturday afternoon at Gagosian Gallery in Chelsea, a certain Latvian supermodel (hint: she just landed a huge cosmetics deal and will soon have her face plastered all over the country) was spotted in denim cutoffs, four-inch Manolos, and a wife-beater with glittery suspenders. Now,
the Fashionista appreciates a certain degree of creativity, but if one is a known “face of style,” shouldn’t one avoid dressing like a clown? Saturday night at Casa Mono was equally disappointing, when the Fashionista was horrified by a parade o’ breasts. Never mind the to-the-chin cleavage (ladies, we know you’re proud of your boobs, but show some restraint, please!). What was up with the plunging necklines and the peep-show side glimpses? If the Fashionista wanted to see naked breasts, she’d go to Saint-Tropez. Or buy a copy of Playboy.
Sunday morning at church (the Fashionista’s church—Barneys), I caught a glimpse of a fellow worshipper, a famous Manhattan socialite, who should know better, wearing a pair of terry-cloth shorts, with the words Squeeze Please over either butt cheek. The horror! And at Barneys! Is nothing sacred? Sigh. The Fashionista forgives the aforementioned faux pas and trusts that the rest of my fellow fashionistas will wise up.
Your faithful Fashionista
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