The new year is prime time for a little sartorial soul-searching. I know
people who manage their wardrobes efficiently and never cling to a disused garment;
I hate those people. I hoard clothes not out of some native pack-rat
pathology, but because I want to believe I have the splendid sort of life where
a mint-green, silk-chiffon, petal-hem, vintage '30s tea gown may be needed at
any moment. This delusion powers me through many a sodden Portland winter.
Regardless, each of us has a few items that represent good ideas gone bad.
And some clothing never was, and never will be, a good idea. It's time to wriggle
from your cocoon of superannuated streetwear and emerge a bee-yoo-ti-ful butterfly.
Your get-rid-of-it guide for 2001 is as follows:
Pleather pants: You can miss one First Thursday fandango in order
to afford real leather. The fake stuff is cheap because it is cheap,
and it looks like crap. If your principles preclude the wearing of animal products,
then don't pretend you're wearing animal products. There are perfectly good
hemp gauchos out there for you.
Backless tops: These just shriek, "I want to pass out on roofies in
the back seat of your LTD."
Corporate logowear: New companies, particularly in high tech, have been
sprouting like cabbages in the industrial parks and derelict warehouses of our
fair polis. Apparently, the first thing you do after leasing an office and a
T1 line is silkscreen a mess of T-shirts and caps with your jaunty logo on them
and distribute them to employees. And employees wear them because hey, free
T-shirt. Nein! Buff the car with it, yes. Paint the den in it, fine.
But in public, the only thing you should advertise with your clothing is you.
Let's say it together: I am not a tool.
Fur collars: Or tippets, as stylebots have seen fit to name them. Just
because Prada designs it doesn't mean you have to chase the nearest knockoff.
As erudite WW fashion editor Byron Beck succinctly noted, "If I want
a muff around my neck, I'll dive into it."
Anything orange: This hurts me more than it does you. I was an early
and dedicated disciple of loud safety poppy, and desertion of this happy hue
will cut my pants assortment in half. But I think I'm ready, and so are you.
The transition will be tough for all of us, so veer toward butterscotch, tomato
or rust for the first phase. And don't forget to breathe.
Itty bitty butterfly hair clips: They're cute, they're glittery, they
make you look like you have a gob of gum stuck in your hair. The first time
I saw them was on a miniature, brass-blond Brazilian underwear model, who also
happened to be a law-school classmate of mine. To this day she's the only person
I've seen carry them off, and she had other phenomenal attributes to recommend
her.
The slob look: Dungarees that drag the ground, grimy-cuffed hoodies,
those Vans of indeterminate shade that stink like a Turkish train ride in the
summer. Girls: You don't have to dress like a dirty boy
and squander your youth at Sony PlayStation to be popular. Boys: It's
bad juju to steal the thunder of kids who really do have to sleep on the street.
They need their look; you don't.
If it says Princess (...or Foxy, or Sugar, or Kitten or Rock Star):
I don't care if it is written in rhinestones. Sayin' it ain't bein' it.
Body glitter: An oily forehead is shine enough for anyone.
Tommy Hilfiger: My kingdom for a fashion assassin who will wipe this
appalling man and every puffy jacket he ever made from the face of the globe.
At best, he's a low-rent Ralph Lauren, and that's not saying much. That his
ad campaigns and designs could capture the imagination of any fraction of an
American minority community is an irony too cruel to contemplate. I'm not talking
about rumors that he's made racist remarks, which could well be baseless. I'm
talking about his ugly-ass overpriced clothes.
Handkerchief hems: You know, those skirts and tops that come to a point
in the front. I guess I can understand the hippie chic angle--if it's really
made out of a bandana you found wadded in the seat crack of the Econoline van
you rode between Phish shows. Otherwise, it's functionless detail that does
nothing to improve that viscose tube skirt from the mall.
Celebrity hair: Have we finally, finally, FINALLY! had it with
the Jennifer Aniston haircut? Tramp down to Walgreens, drop 30 beans for some
Sunbeam hair clippers and start anew, hopefully as yourself this time. And all
you mens doin' that bleached-on-top Backstreet Boys/*N Sync mistake, that goes
double for you.
