I don’t know about you, morsels, but I’m tickled fuchsia (more of a magenta ombre, actually) now that New York Fashion Week is mere days away. The clothes! The egos! The catfights! And then I leave my hotel room and head to the runway shows.
I’m bringing my chum Gremolata Bunion (of the Newport Bunions) with me, as she needs to step up her game for Spring 2015.
“Your statement dressing needs to be more specific,” I chided. “I’d like to see you in a more interrogative jacket. And your go-to shantung shifts? Conditional. Your closet is desperate for declarative dresses.”
Lest I come across as a bully, I’ll have you know I also turned the Taser of truth on myself.
I finally had to admit it — I’m too old for imperative skorts.
Speaking of elements of style, the getups caught in this week’s red-carpet stakeout had none.
Let me brace for this Pink Monsoon, and I’ll file my report:
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