The Fashionista Files (22 page)

FIT FASHIONISTAS

Starving in Style
KAREN DAY 1

I am on an airplane, debating whether I should eat the meal the flight attendant places on my tray table: lasagna, salad (only half-wilted!), roll (not
that
stale!), and some kind of dessert that resembles a white square with a red dot on top (strawberry shortcake, I’m told). Under normal circumstances, I’d pass. But I am on my way to We Care, a holistic detox health spa in Desert Hot Springs, California, where I will be fasting on a careful prescription of juices, supplements, teas, and water, getting daily colonics, and indulging in luxurious spa treatments to stimulate my lymph system, rid my body of dried skin, and take care of stress knots. I’m staying for a week.

This may sound like torture, but for fashionistas it’s considered a spiritual, even vital experience that is said to replenish the body, mind, and soul. The body accumulates toxins and carcinogens, not to mention preservatives and chemicals from processed foods, and you must unburden yourself of them. Some experts, however, do not agree, and think that fasting and colonics are not that great for you. Whatever the case, We Care has garnered a cultlike following of high-profile Hollywood types—agents, studio heads, and celebs like Ben Affleck, Matt Damon, Liv Tyler, Alicia Silverstone, supermodel Gisele Bundchen, and Courtney Love—who think of the desert destination as a bona fide refuge, at $2,000 (and up) per week. The weight loss is not supposed to be the point, but it sure is an added plus, and one of the reasons I decided to check in.

So I opt for the plane food. My last supper—even though I was instructed to eat only fruits and vegetables for three days before arriving. I arrive at four o’clock and Annie, a petite yogi with cropped spiky hair, a dark tan, and the kind of upbeat energy that belies her seventy-something age, orients me to the program. I am given a baggie of meticulously labeled pills—acidophilus, which I’m to take after each colonic, digestive enzymes (two each morning and two in the P.M.), power green (a food supplement that has the same benefits as vegetables and algae and other nutrients), and fiber pills—along with teas (blood, liver, and heart purifiers) and minerals for taking a detox bath (I’m told to take two during my stay).

Then she explains the drink plan: As much water as possible, a teaspoon of Kyo-Green (a green powder to mix with water in order to get the kind of vitamins and minerals you’d find in greens), two detox drinks daily (a fiber-packed beverage that tastes like dirt but helps stimulate the digestive tract), a pure vegetable juice for energy (part carrot juice, part greens), and pureed vegetable soup (to be had in the evening as “dinner”).

It is overwhelming. “So much to remember,” I say. The thing about We Care is that it’s not one of those luxury places where someone makes drinks for you and brings you what you need. It’s bare-bones, very do-it-yourself, to keep you aware of what you’re putting in your body. Not eating is very hard work! Deprivation is so extravagant!

I am here not more than one hour and I’m already hungry. “It’s mind over matter,” says Simona, who is giving me my first colonic of the trip.

Postcolonic, I have the acidophilus and the soup. Some We Carers—a fashion publicist, a Hollywood agent, the former VP of a major television network, a bank CEO—lounge around in the “common area” (a living room with cushy sofas and a gaggle of magazines) and talk about their days.

Talk shifts to—what else—food.

“I’m craving Chinese food in the worst way,” whines a hungry woman wearing a bathrobe so big, it’s swimming on her lithe frame.

“Oh, don’t get me started on food. I’m dying for something to eat,” chirps her friend, who pauses for a moment and then looks on the bright side. “But this is the good soup. It’s better than last night’s.”

“The trick is to have it early. By the end of the night, it’s watered-down, bottom-of-the-barrel stock,” says an athletic-looking, gray-haired, six-foot-tall, two-hundred-pound man who’s been here for three weeks (three weeks!).

After the soup, which, admittedly, is pretty damn good, I hit the sack. I’m jet-lagged.

DAY 2

SIX A.M.: I swear, I’m already thinner. My day begins with a teaspoon of castor oil, which is good to take an hour before a colonic.

TEN A.M.: Colonic.

ELEVEN A.M.: I pop an acidophilus, take a nap, drink my Kyo-Green mixture.

NOON: Yoga class and the detox drink (yuck).

TWO P.M.: Sink into the massage table for an eighty-minute rubdown to stimulate the lymphatic system. When I emerge from the pampering session, I feel like Jell-O. I’m dying for a burger—and I don’t even eat red meat!

DAY 3

EIGHT A.M.: I jump out of bed too quickly. I feel faint and light-headed. But my wooziness goes away when I catch a glimpse of my hip bone in the mirror. I have always dreamed of having a hip bone I could see (not the loftiest of ambitions, but at least I can admit it).

TEN A.M.: Surging with energy, I take a two-mile walk in the desert and, for the first time in months, feel truly relaxed. It’s delightful. My colonic, however, is rough. Nothing is coming out.

ELEVEN A.M.: I take a nutrition class with Susannah, We Care’s founder, who speaks knowledgeably about the dangers of NutraSweet (switch to stevia, an all-natural substance, she recommends) and teaches us how to make the perfect smoothie. I’m so inspired, I buy the $400 Vita-Mix blender (and I’ve never cooked or made anything other than salad in my adult life).

TWO P.M.: Three people tell me I look thin (!). And when I call Mel, she is shocked. “I haven’t heard you this mellow . . . ever!” Just when I think I can’t feel more lucidly calm, I slip into a hot detox bath for thirty minutes and then get a deep-tissue massage. Ah, life here is good. Even though I miss cupcakes.

DAY 4

FIVE A.M.: Headaches, shivers, chills. I do not feel good. “This usually happens at this time,” Rory, We Care’s manager, a blue-eyed Tom Cruise type with bulging biceps, tells me later.

TEN A.M.: Rory makes me a small smoothie with soy milk and Integris, which levels the blood sugar, to revive me. It works. I am so clearheaded that I rush to my room and work for three solid hours.

FOUR P.M.: Nap time.

SEVEN P.M.: Watch Maid in Manhattan, a rental. But I barely make it through five minutes before falling asleep. All of this relaxation is really tiresome!

DAY 5

TEN A.M.: I am skinny! And starving. I mean,
starving.
I put on the TV and find myself salivating over a dog food commercial. Dog food! It looked just like a Fig Newton!

ONE P.M.: My “body facial” appointment, a two-hour treatment involving mud wraps, coffee-bean exfoliation, and a massage. But the real reason I signed up for it—it comes with a smoothie, a large mango-flavored smoothie. And right now I would do anything for something with more substance.

DAY 6

NOON: For lunch I have digestive enzymes, acidophilus, Kyo-Green, carrot-greens juice. Later I do my detox drink, power green supplements, and another detox drink. More than twenty glasses of water later, I am feeling alive, well, and fabulous. My skin looks good. My hair feels soft. The bags under my eyes are gone. I may be ready for a nice piece of salmon, but at the same time this not-eating is really working for me—mentally and physically. I plow through work at warp speed.

ONE P.M.: During a trip to the outlet malls, I get my reward. Gucci dress, size two, baby! I probably shouldn’t have bought it, because I’m sure I’ll gain the weight back as soon as I start eating regularly again, but I couldn’t resist.

DAY 7

TEN A.M.: The last day. I’m seven pounds lighter, which is a lot for me, considering I’m barely five feet tall. I pack and get dressed. I have been waiting for this moment since I arrived: Time to put on my jeans. My butt is tiny! My legs look longer and leaner. My inner thighs are not even touching. But more important, I feel— psychologically—strong, alive, healthy, and well. Plus I am as clean as a whistle.

TEN-THIRTY A.M.: Annie walks me through break-the-fast rules— fruit and veggies only for three days; then introduce protein slowly. I swear off white flour forever (something I’ve done countless times before, but at this moment I’m serious) and plan to switch to healthier grains. Before hugging my new We Care mates good-bye, I bite into an apple. It is the best apple I’ve ever had.

The Edina Effect
MELISSA

I hate to exercise. There’s nothing that strikes me as more boring than slogging your way through a workout. I was the type of kid who was always picked last in kickball and practically failed gym. Whenever friends and I played tag, I was always “it.” For years I was blessed with a healthy metabolism. I could eat whatever I wanted, but I never gained weight. My nickname was “Skinny Annie” (my middle name is Ann). But all good things come to an end, and when I hit my twenties I realized I’d have to join a health club or embrace the roll of pudge around my waist.

As in fashion, I was drawn to the trendiest workouts. First up: Rollerblading. Two of my friends were really good at it, and I en-vied how they whizzed down the Central Park loop without missing a beat. I enrolled in classes at the Learning Annex, and a few weeks later I joined them. The bastards left me to fend for myself. I didn’t so much roll as not-walk. I was ’blading at such a glacial pace that picnickers laughed at me.

“Yo, look at that girl! Go, mama! Go, mama! You can do it!” one cheered, snickering.

“That’s so pathetic,” another one stage-whispered.

But I was determined to be a ’blader, knee and elbow pads and all. The most harrowing experience was when I decided to blade from my apartment twenty blocks to the health club. I fell several times on the sidewalk, executing a perfect ass-slide down Bleecker Street. Cars honked. People pointed. But no one helped me up. (I was also wearing very trendy polka-dot bike shorts at the time.)

That was it. The blades rusted in my closet. I tried it all: step class, hip-hop dance class, African tribal dance beats, anything to make losing weight more fun. I’ve done yoga, I’ve owned a scooter, and I’ve had several trainers who tried to whip me into shape. One told me, “You are what you eat,” after I told him I’d had a sandwich from Blimpie.

These days I slog through my workout on the elliptical trainer—half an hour four times a week. My brother, the track-and-field champion, has told me I really need to lift weights and get muscle definition. Maybe one day . . .

GETTING INTO YOUR SKINNY JEANS

We all have two kinds of jeans—our everyday jeans and our skinny ones, which we can wear only every few years, if we’re lucky. Fashionistas are, like all women, obsessed with thinness. You may think fashionistas don’t eat. Well, some don’t, which we don’t recommend, save for a trip to We Care every year. But they do watch what they put into their mouths and stick to exercise regimens, even if it’s nothing more than walking through the outlet mall (four hours later, you’ll feel the burn). These are our secrets.

Weight Watchers, the old-school system where you equate food to points, is big with the Condé Nast girls who jaunt to meetings during their lunch breaks.

The South Beach Diet, a best-selling book with a diet that Bill and Hillary Clinton—who are not fashionistas—both swear by. We haven’t really tried the diet, but the premise is Atkins meets Sugar Busters. You’ll be sick of ricotta cheese in no time.

Atkins. No carbs. No way. No how. Put the pretzels down!

The Zone delivery. A delivery service of three meals and two snacks a day that are balanced a certain way to provide the right ratio of proteins, carbs, and fats. Danger: Oftentimes, followers eat the meals and still go out for dinner after and wind up gaining weight (we won’t mention any names, Karen!).

Love. Falling in love is always a good way to slim down, because food just becomes less appealing and it’s very hard to eat with those butterflies in your stomach. But be warned: Once you’re in love and comfortable with your new man, pounds tend to pile up because you suddenly find yourself indulging in more dessert and forgoing the gym to spend extra hours in bed with your honey.

Digestive enzymes from the health food store, which promote digestion, which speeds up the metabolism. Don’t eat without taking two with water.

Green tea. Up to forty-eight cups a day will give you a large dose of an ingredient called EGCG, which boosts the metabolism and, hence, weight loss. But that doesn’t mean you can eat all the brownies you want.

Yoga. No matter what kind of yoga you practice—Ashtanga, Bikram, Vinyasa, Anusara, disco (to the
Satuday Night Fever
soundtrack), doggie (that’s yoga with your pet), couples (with your partner), aqua (in the pool), or any other hybrid—it’s a great conversation topic with Gwynnie, Madonna, and the fashion editors at all the magazines. Fashionistas may travel to class in their leather pants and Manolos, but once barefoot on the sticky mat, they let go of the superficial and nurture their souls . . . for at least a little while. Just avoid the Gucci mat and the Marc Jacobs mat bag. We understand their appeal, but you’ll be mocked in the yoga studio, frankly.

Pilates. A great way to elongate and stretch your muscles; the supermodels love it.

Ballet. Uptown ladies love ballet class, followed by a proper tea at the Four Seasons hotel before an evening at the theater.

Boot camp. Fashionistas are so in control of their lives that being pushed around and forced to run like a crazy person, go a few rounds with the heavy bag, and do some serious push-ups is a nice change of pace.

Saunas and steam rooms. These are essential.

Tell your driver to park a few blocks from any destination. This will force you to walk and, consequently, add muscle to your calves.

Shop in a rush. A mad dash to try on a dozen outfits while on a time crunch will give your abs a workout.

WHAT THE HELL ARE THEY TALKING ABOUT?

Faking It!
KAREN

It was a typical Wednesday afternoon on the first day of spring in Nolita, a boho-chic neighborhood on the fringe of Little Italy and adjacent to Soho in New York City. The sun sprinkled on my shoulders as I pranced down Elizabeth Street, almost slipping on a small trail of doggie poop, which I’m sure was deposited by a toy Yorkie and his doting mommy, who was probably too exhausted after a day of modeling to clean it up. The hip downtown fashion girls—a pack of fashionistas with dyed dark hair, chandelier earrings, retro Pumas, bee-stung glossed lips, skinny arms toting large amounts of shopping bags and the occasional bright orange Hermès Birkin— gallivanted in and out of Tracey Feith, Jane Mayle, and all the requisite shopping destinations that are worth calling in sick from work to visit. Street vendors peddled fruit. And Ciao Bella unveiled their newest flavor of sorbet—“cosmopolitan” (no ID required to taste).

Life was sweet.

I stopped by a swank boutique to look for art books, which are sometimes the best fashion purchase (no matter what you look like, they’re always flattering). As I flipped through gorgeously bound, newly released reads, I noticed that
David Bowie
(!) was standing next to me. I have always been obsessed and in love with him. I was dying. How to get him to notice me and talk? I wondered as I glanced at a book on the work of artist Tom Friedman. Suddenly, magic in my ears. The delightful British, throaty voice of David Bowie, Ziggy Stardust himself, purred in my auditory canal. “Is that the new Tom Friedman?” he politely asked. I wanted to jump up and down and shout “You’re David Bowie! You’re David Bowie! I love you!” But I played it cool.

“It
is
the new Tom Friedman. You know, he has an exhibit at the New Museum on Broadway right now,” I said calmly, trying to impress him with my knowledge (thank God I had just read a piece on the artist in the
New Yorker
and was abreast of the situation). David got all excited. “Really? He’s brilliant. Is the exhibit good, do you know?” he asked. I hadn’t seen the show, but I didn’t want my conversation with my idol to end just yet. Before I knew it, lies poured from my mouth (as if I had no control!): “Oh, it’s genius,” I screeched. “I just saw it. You must go!”

David smiled and eagerly nodded. “I definitely will.”

There was a moment of silence. Was that it? I wondered. Was our love affair over? Then he spoke again, “His work is just so . . . pre-Memphis.”

Pre-Memphis? I had no clue what the hell he was talking about. But I agreed. “You know, I never thought of it that way. But it really is. It’s also very ironic and postmodern,” I cooed as if I were some kind of seasoned art critic. He agreed—my sign to continue. “They have the toothpaste paintings and the pencil-shaving sculptures on display. Oh, and the toothpick piece is amazing in person,” I boasted, thinking,
Thank the Lord I read that article in the magazine!Otherwise, I’d have no way to fudge a conversation along.
Ten minutes later, David and I shook hands and parted ways. We both bought the new Tom Friedman, which remains on display on my glass-and-chrome bookshelf, which is very Bauhaus (see Chapter Seven for Bauhaus reference in the art section).

Meanwhile, I stressed over what
pre-Memphis
meant for months. Did it have something to do with Elvis? Was it a reference to Graceland? What if he was just screwing with my head? I had no clue. I asked everyone I knew and came up blank. Months later I was still on a rampage to find out what this whole pre-Memphis thing was about. And an architect friend knew! Apparently, Memphis was a design movement in the early eighties in Italy, marked by bold shapes and colors, a reaction against minimalism. Memphis furnishings were fanciful, bright, wild, biomorphic in shape. Sort of like Tom Friedman’s. But as David Bowie pointed out, Tom’s work seems ever so slightly
before
Memphis (at least, that’s what I told myself).

A few weeks later, I was at a friend’s house and everyone was complimenting a sculpture in their apartment and I pretentiously remarked, “It’s so pre-Memphis,” just to see what kind of reaction I’d get out of my new favorite word. Everyone smiled and agreed.

Then someone piped up, “It’s also kind of ironic.”

Another joined in: “And postmodern, don’t you think?”

I could only laugh to myself.

SOMETHING TO BUZZ ABOUT

A fashionista must be able to wield proper lexicon as smoothly as James Bond. The point of fashionista chitchat is to come off smart, informed, and fab, whether you know what you’re talking about or not. Below, the best buzzwords and how to use them in a sentence.

Allan Schwartz (v.): The act of totally knocking something off, copying it to a T. The phrase is inspired by designer Allen B. Schwartz, of ABS fame, who, after every major award ceremony (Oscars, Golden Globes), successfully rips off the best dresses worn by the brightest stars and then sells them in his boutiques a week later for one-sixteenth of the price. (For example: “Darling, are you wearing Versace or are you Allen Schwartzing?” Some may even just use “Schwartzing” for short; fashionistas hate wasting their breath using multisyllabic words.) Can also be applied to “Steve Madden,” the once-imprisoned (tax evasion or fraud or something like that) shoe designer who knocks off whatever Prada and Miu Miu do.

Beyond (adv., adj.): So much, used as an adverb to describe a verb. (For example: “I miss you beyond.”) Also used as an adjective to stand for
gorge.
(For example: “That micromini sweater dress with lace is beyond.”)

Birkin (n., v.): A style of Hermès handbag that starts at a price of $4,000. The large, soft leather tote is named after actress Jane Birkin, and there are four-year-long waiting lists at Hermès stores around the world. Every fashionista’s aspiration. (For example: “Daddy got me a Birkin for my birthday.”) It can also be used as a verb, as in, “I just Birkined.” Meaning: “I bought a Birkin.”

Book (n.): In the magazine world, book is a term that means
magazine.
(For example: “That piece on thigh-high boots in the front of the book was beyond.”)

Collection (n.): A body of work. The most common fashionista term for a season of clothing from a designer. (For example: “Halston is no longer doing regular RTW collections, but rather, couture fittings only.”)

Couture (adj.): People misuse this word often and throw it around casually in order to describe something that’s major, but really it is a French word that describes original styles that are immaculately sewn, tailored, and expensive. Haute couture literally means “high sewing.” And true couture clothing is not sold off the rack. Heavens, no! It is handmade—hours of manpower behind it—in an
atelier
(French for studio). Couture designers (Gaultier, John Galliano, Christian Lacroix, to name a few) show their collections twice a year—in the spring and in the fall/winter. A couture gown might cost upward of $100,000. (For example: “It took Lulu eight months of fittings to get her couture dress, but it is so major and beyond, it was worth it.”)

D-list (n., adj.): Far from the dean’s list, it’s actually a person or group of people who are in no way noteworthy. They cannot help you with your career. They often crash parties. They have no significant job and they tend to social-climb in search of the limelight. (For example: “Why would you go to a party in
that
part of town? It’s so D-list!”)

Edgy (adj.): Modern, slightly off-kilter, forward, or futuristic, and razor-sharp in aesthetic or attitude—in the best possible way. Fashionistas use it to describe designers, outfits, interior design, DJs, CDs, films, or haircuts they can’t quite explain, but appreciate. (For example: “I don’t know what happened to Moby. He used to be so edgy.”)

Fashion credits (n.): Information about who designs what. Typically written in a small font and seen on the pages of a fashion magazine where fashion is being modeled, be it a full-on spread or in a celebrity shoot. (For example: “I am dying for those motocross leather pants, but I forgot to read the fashion credits to see who makes them.”)

Full Gooch (n.): Short for full Gucci outfit, head to toe. (For example: Girl 1: “I don’t think she looks good tonight.” Girl 2: “But she’s in full Gooch!” Girl 1: “She is? Huh. Well, in that case she looks hot.”)

Genius (adj.): In fashion-speak, genius has nothing to do with one’s level of intelligence. Instead, it is meant to describe something (an article of clothing, an earring, a newspaper report about rare goats in the Himalayas that yield a new kind of cashmere) in a positive—nay, incredible!—light. (For example: “The ruffles of that skirt are kind of genius.”)

Gorge (adj.): Short for gorgeous. (For example: “That Michael Kors dress! Gorge!”) Fashionistas like to speak in short, fragmented words (it allows them to save their energy for other, more important things, like shopping), so you could also say “fab” for fabulous or “to die” instead of “to die for.”

Hipster (n.): A low-rise pair of pants (For example: “My hipsters give me plumber’s crack when I bend down, but aren’t they genius?”); also, one who closely follows the trends, keeps an accurate mental Rolodex of pop-culture references, and tends to wear all black. (For example: “Those cigarette-smoking hipsters at the bar think they’re all that.”)

Ironic (adj.): The dictionary will report that the word means to express something different from and often opposite to its literal meaning, or an expression marked by a deliberate contrast between apparent and intended meaning. But fashionistas use it in the same vein as they do
postmodern—
to fudge their way through conversations and come off sounding intellectual, savvy, hyperaware. (For example: “What? You don’t like my flat shoes? But they’re so ironic!” See also, “postmodern.”)

J’adore
(v.): French for
I love it
or
I love you.
(For example: “Did you see her Birkin?
J’adore!
”) Note: Fashionistas love to use random French phrases, such as
très
instead of
very,
for no reason at all (i.e., “That boy is
très
cute.
J’adore!
”).

JV, varsity (n, adj): Used to describe or connote beginner and advanced fashionista style. JV is short for
junior varsity.
Varsity is when you are willing to push all the limits and flirt with the danger of looking serious style. (For example: “That outfit she’s got on is so JV, but I dig the varsity accessories.”)

Limo-to-lobby/lobby-to-limo (adj.): A way to describe gorge garments and/or shoes that are not practical for anything other than show, meaning they would not be comfortable for anything other than getting out of a limo and going to the lobby (or restaurant, party, venue) and vice versa. (For example: “I got the sickest new shoes. I can’t really walk in them, but they’re made for sitting anyway. They’re so lobby-to-limo.”)

Line (n.): Collection.

Major (adj.): Beyond! Said with attitude and zeal, it is a way to express something so great, there is not even a word for it. (For example: “She wears Chanel heels to yoga. That is major!” or “Have you had the toro tartare at Nobu? It’s major!”)

Metrosexual (n.): A way to describe straight men who are in touch with their feminine side, as evidenced by the care they put into grooming and dressing. They can use
Manolos
in a sentence. They tend to get manicures, expensive haircuts, and pricey beauty products. Also described as
fauxmosexuals.
(For example: “Ugh. My date went on and on about his cuticles and his new Gucci shoes. I’m sick of metrosexuals. Where are the real men?”)

Model’s own (n.): Something fashion-related that belongs to the model. A phrase often relegated to fashion credits. It means that the model was wearing something that the stylist really liked; hence, it wound up in the pages of the magazine. Consumers, sadly, are not left with an inkling of where to find one just like it. (For example: “Silk ruffled butterfly dress with lattice lacing up the
side and corset hook-and-eye closures, $5,400, Dolce & Gabbana. Hat, $50, Kangol. Boots, model’s own.”)

J’adore
Juicy!

Monograms (n.): Initializing something by way of embroidery, engraving, or some kind of permanent mark. (For example: “We both have monogrammed Juicy sweats. They’re major!”)

MPW (n): An acronym for manicure, pedicure, and wax. (For example: “Are you going for a full day of beauty?” “No, just an MPW.”) Worth a note: We like to refer to manicure and pedicure as a “mani-pedi.”

Muse (n.): One who inspires a designer. She is stylish, chic, sophisticated, intelligent, artistic, and sometimes even on the payroll to do such meaningful tasks as change four, five, six times a day and make major announcements such as “I like red.” A very good job to have, but not one likely to be listed in the classifieds. Muses are usually starlets, models, royalty, and social mavens. (For example: “Sofia Coppola has it all. She’s such a sick filmmaker and she’s Marc Jacobs’s muse! So who cares if things didn’t last with Spike Jones!”)

OTT (adj.): An acronym for
over the top
and used to describe things that are slightly outrageous. It can be a good thing, like high boots with a micromini vintage sweater dress adorned with lace and your grandmother’s cameo, or it can be a bad thing, such as wearing way too many trends in one outfit, like a leopard trench coat with a leopard skirt, fishnets, thigh-high boots, a silky camisole, a leopard scarf, and a large hat. (For example: “Did you notice Halle Berry’s perky breasts in the movie
Monster’s Ball
? They’re OT T” illustrates a positive use of the word. If we referred to a porn star’s implants, we would be using the negative implication.)

Piece (n.): Something you’re working on, such as a drawing, a sculpture made of sugar cubes at a restaurant, an article, a play, a screenplay, or any kind of art (doodles on your jeans, a paper for your social studies class). A good word to throw around when you want to project an aura of creativity. It also makes for an excellent excuse when you don’t want to do something (like go on a date with the loser your mother set you up with). (For example: “I would love to see you tonight, John, really, but I’ve been working on a piece and I’m on a roll. Maybe another time.”)

Pink-collar job (n.): You’ve heard of blue-collar jobs and white-collar jobs. Well, pink-collar jobs are those in the fashion industry. (For example: “Paul just landed the ultimate pink-collar job—head of PR for Ralph Lauren Men.”)

Postmodern (adj.): While the word correctly denotes artistic, literary, or architectural movements that challenge modernist principles, either by pushing them to extremes or by bringing back more traditional styles, fashionistas tend to use the term to refer to
any
new film, show, song, book, building, or piece of art (furniture, paintings, lightbulbs, shoes). The best use of the word comes into play during conversations relating to pop culture. Throw it out there when you have nothing else to say. (For example: “Oh, yes, I saw the new Madonna video. It’s so postmodern.”)

At Shopsin’s, a dive restaurant where fashionistas splurge on PB&J French toast sandwiches, there are “postmodern pancakes” on the menu, which are pancakes made with chopped-up other pancakes in the middle. Also see “ironic.”

Product placement (n.): The art of getting a product (a piece of clothing, a Diet Coke, Advil) seen in a high-profile way—say, in the background of a fashion spread, on film and television, or even at parties. There are people whose job is just to get products seen, but unless they’re working for a top film-production studio, they won’t make much money. (For example: “Did you see the Nokia phone in the
Charlie’s Angels
movie? Talk about genius product placement!”)

Showroom (n.): A place of business where designers show their collections for PR and/or sales purposes. In Manhattan, the Garment District, an area of Midtown in the Thirties and Forties on or off Seventh Avenue, is where most of the showrooms are located. (To use in a sentence, try this: “I’m so glad she has a showroom in Soho. I’m sick of traveling to Midtown and Seventh Avenue.”)

So 1995 (or any other date) (adj.): Used to describe something that is referential of a past season and, therefore, “over.” But then isn’t saying something is “
so
1995,”
so
1995?

So good (adj.): A synonym for
gorge.
It should never be used to describe food, only clothes and accessories. (For example, “Where did you get that ruched white shirt you wore yesterday? It was so good.”)

So very John Galliano (adj.): Something the designer himself likes to say when something epitomizes his work, which he once described as “something incredibly refined with something savage.” (For example: “Saying it’s ‘so very John Galliano’ is so very John Galliano.”)

Stylist (n.): Extreme fashionistas. They are in charge of assembling outfits for actors for film and television, as well as dressing models and celebrities for magazine fashion shoots, ad campaigns, glamorous parties, and everyday life. Prop stylists do the same but focus on furniture, knickknacks, and other related props for rooms, and background scenes. (For example: “You look so hot tonight. Who is your stylist?”)

Walker (n.): A gay man who accompanies a woman for the evening, typically for an event. Walkers make excellent dates. (For example: “Truman Capote was the perennial walker for high-society babes back in the day.”)