Mel: What the hell is that?
Cher: A dress.
Mel: Says who?
Cher: Calvin Klein.
-From the movie Clueless
We’ve all met the specimens. Those kinds that snowball your eyes early in the morning when all you want to do is to have your regular sugar-free coffee. More dreaded than a Monday morning meeting, the fashion victims as they are publicly called, are my undoing. They roam around freely causing hallucinations in the next cabin, give fashion advice to poor innocent bystanders on how fluroscent yellow is the next black, make fun of well-dressed clean cuts often interrupting conversations to call them boring, offer to shop for your wardrobes, weddings and funerals and generally spill your blood to the last drop. So much so, that one line on the vintage wear collection they tell you at meal times has you crying out in pain. Repeat after me ten times, “I will not go near a fashion victim…”
In fact every office I know has one, and if your unlucky, two-three. They own the big bucks, ride the latest set of wheels, can hire wardrobe consultants even. But they don’t. They like to think they are clever with ensembles, some go far, stating that they are adventurous even. But at the end of the day, you got to deal with it. The lack of good taste is everywhere. In creative fields and blue-collar jobs. Some can even go mighty wrong with a white shirt. A simple white shirt, I tell you. Leopard prints on sultry afternoons, clutches in bright orange that are teamed with a fuchsia tunic, bright red shoes on bright prints causing a carefully designed chaos and a hell of a lot more wardrobe malfunctions that could call Nipslips, common. Here I give you a profile of the very common fashion prototypes that make our office hours and parties a living hell.
The A-lister victims: I had a boss once who actually wore leopard prints in all their glory to work. Tight pants, in fact too tight for sitting down, forget doing anything else, teamed with a leopard print tunic, shoes, belt, yada yada. But no, the saving grace was a bright orange beaded necklace on those leopard prints. And my eye would pop everytime I hit the door of her room. Now, this jarring ensembled boss would constantly rave about the time she sang at a pub in New York, saw Debbie Harry, moved around with A-listers etc etc that would cause more chaos in our brains. To think she hung out at celeb-infested areas in this outfit, was a bit much to take. But well, she did. Now, that explains a lot about the kind of patience even celebs have.
The paranoid dressers: And yes, there are others, who think they’re cool and chilled out in their dirty jeans and their super filthy t-shirts. Pray why? Because they are not the pink-wearing, high-heel trotting teenage drama queens. Like really? So does that mean all kind of fashion sense flies out of the window for you, only because you wouldn’t want to be named, Miss Hello Kitty. They drink like fish, swim like one and smoke many cigarettes and officially call themselves, the creatives. Well. So you see, the theory of exclusion works here. All those who are not in pink, are banished to the kingdom of filth. I met those when I was working in a company that needed creative inputs, and all you could see is a sea of t-shirts in no more than three basic colours – black and Pantera-Iron Maiden type blacks, white, make that dirty white – the ones that get dog-eared at the sleeves laced with a good amount of dirt, and blues of all shades – from royal blue to navy, excluding the super-duper turquoise. And they wouldnt wear jewellery and make fun of those who do. Well, dirty is the new classy, they think.
The try-hard wardrobes: So, they watch a lot of TV. A lot more than any normal person can handle. And they want to be like Ayesha Takia and Bipasha Basu. Well, it’s good as long as they wish, but no, they can’t afford Rocky S but have to look like their idols. So what do they do? Some flea-market shopping and some Mall cocktail later, we see shredded skirts, and ribbon-cutted/ribbed blouses along with jangly earrings on a size Extra Large body and we hope we ran the 1000 km marathon than come to work. And not to forget the perfect body mass index that died a slow violent death in this bargain.
The vintage valley: what do you do with your aunts old tablecloth? Stitch a pretty blouse and team it with contemporary eyelet voile blouses and accessories. But the killer? The patchwork effect that keeps everyone around you distracted. Or perhaps, your moms vintage gold earrings in that jarring goldy hue that have nothing to do with your decent Westside top….and the list goes on and on.
The confused party: If only intentions are actions. These victims try to look good, I swear, but they fail. And we don’t want to tell them, for fear they would lay themselves on the rails the next moment over a miserable failure like not teaming their Mango sheer with neutrals. They try and try, and make our eyes give up on the world. So, to make matters lighter, we laugh, and hope to god, the mirror talks to them.
The Harajuku clan: Last season’s Prada has nothing to do with them. They are the latest from the ramps. Louis Vuitton, Lanvin, Miu Miu..you name it and they have it. And what they don’t have is the ability to pick the right thing from a good collection. They always end up paying more and gaining less and less fashion dues. They even try out Harajuku style in Khar, Mumbai and wonder why there isn’t any applause. Of course, fall/winter is over, but spring-summer they choose is disastrous that we hope its winter all over again. Mismatched accessories, big labels and a potpourri of brands – that’s a fashion mess we don’t want to watch.
So yeah, that’s how it all is. Someone said, show me your friends and I’ll tell you who you are. Thank God, they didn’t think of colleagues. So, yes, behenjis who dress up in Dior can take a hike, I want my sore eyes to rest for a bit.
-Blue Roses
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment