I am obsessed with the casual chic of “undone” hair – think Charlotte Gainsborough – but tragic things happen when I try to emulate it. Tragic like this French braid, which started falling apart about about 5 minutes after I finished doing it. Eventually, I just gave up on it. It was that kind of a day. A 3-Coke kind of day. The WORST, basically.
The rest of the outfit is super cute, so you will forgive me for showing it to you again. I went back through my monthly capsules and, sure enough, it’s 90% similar to something I’ve worn before. (The jacket and bag are different this time, for the record.) But a cute outfit is a cute outfit, and I think we have all given up on me being an actual fashion blogger, yes?
Cons: looks like a schmatta. And done. Here’s a picture of me trying to make it look less schmatta-esque:
Fail. And here’s another fail:
And, finally, the head-on truth:
I had pretty much decided to send it back to consignment (whence it came), when I started to have second-thoughts. For obvious reasons, it was a hard sell the first time; I originally picked it off the clearance rack, just as it was about to be shipped off for donation. Even if it were to sell again this time, I would probably see a negligible amount of money from it. Was it all worth the effort? Especially when there was, I realized, an alternative. A drastic alternative. Chop chop!
Since I have zero sowing skills, I asked my grandma to help me out. She did an awesome job, as always.
So now, my DVF tunic blouse is all awesome. Conflict resolved!
For the last week or so, the world’s fashionable people have been descending in (stylish) hordes upon the south of France for the Cannes Film Festival. For mere peons like me that means a plethora of red carpet photos to peruse, and critique, at my leisure. [Best site for that is Red Carpet Fashion Awards. It gives a side-by-side comparison with the runway version of each dress. Handy!] I love the ballgown-heavy drama of red carpets; every now and then a real stinker will turn up and I will chuckle to myself, smug in the knowledge that, even if I don’t have that person’s money, I at least possess more sense. I’m catty like that.
I love the Cannes red carpet in particular because it affords one the rare opportunity to see a lot of French actresses in fashionable action. I love French women; they have a unique sort of inexplicable, effortless chic that no one else can reproduce. Take Charlotte Gainsborough – she always looks like she hasn’t brushed her hair in weeks and has only a casual acquaintance with make-up, yet manages to exude an almost aristocratic elegance. If I tried to pull off that kind of look, I would exude the elegance of a smelly vagrant. I could write sonnets about French women’s style, but I will spare you the pain.
Anyway, the other day I saw a picture of one of my current girl crushes, Marion Cotillard, on a Cannes red carpet and I have to admit that I was disappointed. She was wearing some sort of sparkly black jumpsuit thing. Why, MarCo, why? You are a lovely woman. More importantly, you are a lovely woman who is regularly bombarded with beautiful gowns from the top couture houses in the world. Ok, so you want to be edgy. I get that. But, surely, there are better options out there than a JUMPSUIT. For the love of Lanvin!!
Alright, so I guess you now know my prejudice against jumpsuits. I tried to like them, I really did. When they first started to trickle down to the Edmonton retail scene, I tried on a pair at H&M (the first stop of the trendy fashion express around here). After all, I am willing to experiment. Proof of that is the fact that somewhere in my basement there is a pair of dhoti-style pants (better known as “Hammer pants”) that I bought last year – and even wore in public (once). But jumpsuits … no. This is where I draw the line. Even for the 1% of the population who is able to wear them without looking utterly ridiculous, they do no favours. My own brief experience with them is better left forgotten. In fact, let us never speak of jumpsuits again, and pretend they do not exist.