The Fashionista Files (3 page)

MY FRIEND, THE FASHIONISTA

Karen, the Girl in “That Dress” at My Wedding
MELISSA

The church was a Gothic cathedral built in 1920, and I was kneeling in front of the sacristy, my soon-to-be-husband by my side. Everything was perfect. I had walked down the aisle without tripping on the voluminous tulle skirt of my Cinderella-meets-Grace-Kelly gown, my dad had managed the handoff to Mike without a hitch, and Father O’Hare had quietly congratulated me on making a “spectacular entrance” and welcomed “all the beautiful fashionistas” to our wedding ceremony with genial charm. (Yes, he actually used that word! I was thrilled!)

Suddenly, there was a slight but audible gasp, a whispered ripple across the audience. I turned and saw my dear friend and writing partner Karen Robinovitz walking toward the reader’s podium. She was wearing a completely backless beaded micromini Chloe dress that dipped so low in the back it practically grazed her bum.

And we were inside a Catholic church. (Luckily, she’s Jewish.)

My relatives were scandalized. My friends, jaded New Yorkers all, looked just a tiny bit shocked. My parents nudged each other. Our
Marie Claire
editors in the pews took bets on the underwear situation (odds at five to one that she wasn’t wearing any).

But I only smiled.

I had asked Karen to perform the first reading instead of relegating her to bridesmaid status and limiting her fashion choices for the evening. In fact, I had asked her to wear that specific dress to my wedding. “It’s fantastic!” I told her. I knew it would cause a sensation, bring a hint of scandal, and give everyone something to talk about at the reception. A little bit of fashion fizz to add to the event.

Karen is the type of fashionista who thrives on “event” clothing. “If it doesn’t scream ‘Look at me!’ then I don’t want it,” she has said, while trying on yet another ornately feathered, slashed-at-the-hip, cleavage-baring number. Her style is uniquely her own—a dash of super-high-end designer (think white fur chubbies by Alexander McQueen) over a pair of slim Levi’s jeans (from the junior department), with signature skyscraper heels that add height to her tiny, four-foot-eleven-inch frame. She’s unafraid of fashion and wears her clothing with utter confidence and a great sense of humor.

Everyone should have a fashionista friend like Karen. Not only does she own all these wonderful clothes—her closet serves as a communal source for her friends when we need to borrow something a little outlandish, a little outrageous, for those extra-special occasions when a little black dress just won’t do. Nothing to wear? Just pop over to Karen’s and she’ll find you the perfect thing.

She has accepted Chloe as her personal savior! (You can’t tell in this picture, but it’s backless and revealing . . . trust me!)

We shop together, pore through magazines together, and conduct heated fashion play-by-plays on our outfits for the day. Her appetite for life is expressed in the vibrant way she dresses, and she’s the first person I turn to for an opinion about a designer purchase. Her judgment is honest but never cruel. I look better because I have her in my life. She’s taught me not to be afraid to be sexy, to stand out, and to claim the spotlight once in a while. My husband appreciates her influence as well—without her, I’d never wear the plunging V-neck tops that he adores (and that one insane Chloe barely-there T-shirt she got me as a gift when she came into a very large store credit after returning a present from her mother).

Later, at the reception, Karen apologized to Father O’Hare for her outfit. She felt a little guilty about her backless bravado.

“I’m sorry, I should have worn a sweater over my dress for the reading,” she told him.

“My dear,” Father O’Hare said, with a wink, “you were the best thing to happen to the altar!” Ahmen.

Sole Mates
KAREN

Melissa is not a fussy-clothes kind of girl. She is happiest in jeans and a little top of any kind, be it an Eley Kishimoto kimono, a tee from Target, a Marni hippie floral thing, or Gap button-downs (she has one in hot pink and one in turquoise, which she calls her “TV tops” because the colors pop on TV, should she have to make an appearance of any kind). Sure, she has a stable of hard-to-figureout pieces that require a manual for wearing, dresses that have trains that may be hazardous to her health, and ruffled tops that don’t quite stay buttoned (but they’re Christian Dior!). But all in all, she’s a laid-back fashionista who loves the fanciful, but is more often found in the casual. Down south is another story. Down south the girl is always equipped. She has a flawless shoe collection—four-inch-high turquoise Dolce & Gabbana heels with a fiercely pointy toe, vintage Vivienne Westwood platform sneaker clogs, gold pointy-toed numbers from the fifties, YSL sky-high stilettos with sassy polished prints across the toes, zipped-up Louboutins in denim . . . the list goes on and on. Even her sneakers are groovy—green-and-yellow suede Adidas slip-ons. Unfortunately, we are not the same shoe size.

I’ll never forget the romantic evening in April of 2000, when we consummated our relationship (in fashionista speak, that means cocktails and seared scallops at a very trendy restaurant). We met at a party at the Chanel store before heading off to dinner at 60 Thompson, a posh hotel in Soho. Up until this time, our connection consisted of meeting once, writing incessant e-mails (often about fashion), and making a whole bunch of canceled plans. Upon first sight, I was smitten. A fresh breath of fashionista air was cast upon the dingy streets as Mel, a vision in midcalf, thong-toed Burberry high-heeled leather boots, emerged from a sullen yellow taxi. Three passersby stopped dead in their tracks to compliment her foot gear. And she modestly thanked them, adding that they were from last season and she had never actually worn them before.

She confessed that she christened the shoes for her night out with me. I was truly touched. Especially because I busted out my ridiculous Imitation of Christ eyelet top with prairie collar, worn untucked and cinched at the waist with a black leather braided fringe Bruce belt just for her! Fashionistas tend to express their love by dressing for one another. Before we made our way into the glazed doors of the Chanel store on Spring Street, we took a moment to ogle each other’s styles. “A Marc Jacobs driving cap? Love!” “That Martine Sitbon ruched top? Hot!” I grabbed her arm as we marched onward and thought,
She’s the one!

At Chanel, we admired the same shoes, double air-kissed our way through the crowd, and played the “If you could have whatever you want in the store, what would it be” game while Rene, a good-looking DJ who typically does Tom Ford’s and Diane von Furstenberg’s runway shows, mixed up groovy down-tempo beats. After we had our fill (time it takes to really enjoy a fashion party: about ten minutes), we sashayed to the restaurant, showing up a cool fifteen minutes late for our reservation. And it was at our very glamorous dinner when we came up with the idea for this book. But the moment was so much bigger than that.

It was the beginning of a lifelong friendship, the kind of connection that can never be jeopardized by silly disagreements and cranky outbursts. We clicked on so many levels, talking about everything from losing our virginity, family upbringings, and our mutual affinity for science fiction, to outrageous hats, new restaurants, pop art, and repeats of television shows we both watched in high school (
Quantum Leap
). I appreciated everything about her— her wry and quirky sense of humor, her biting wit, her slightly repressed nature (she blames that on her religious background), the way she laughs and inhales instead of exhales, and, of course, her crazy shoes (I had coveted them when they came out and was on the waiting list. . . . Sadly, I never heard from the Burberry salesgirl about my acceptance, much like the admissions board of a university).

Leaving the fashion scene (we had numerous editor—and Chanel bag—sightings), I noticed something quite peculiar. Melissa was walking funny—and rather slowly. I knew it couldn’t have been the wine. She had only one glass. I couldn’t remember if she had this awkward walk—toe-heel, toe-heel instead of heel-toe, heel-toe—earlier. Her feet probably hurt, I thought, a typical (and overlookable) side effect of great shoes. Blisters. It happens all the time.

The following week bred another fabulous dinner. And again Mel had that odd walk. Toe-heel, toe-heel, toe-heel. She had the pace of an elderly woman with a hip problem and a walker. And her body was pitched forward ever so slightly. Like the Leaning Tower of Pisa. I asked her if she was okay. I wasn’t sure if she was limping. “Shoes,” she said, “I can’t walk in heels.” I explained that she should go heel-toe, heel-toe, and she shrugged her shoulders. “I know, I know. But I can’t.”

Such a defeatist attitude, I told her. “Of course you can! Try.” We had a little lesson up Hudson Street in the West Village and lo and behold, Melissa was completely incapable of walking heel-toe, heel-toe when she wore a shoe with a heel that measured over two inches in height. And she has over a hundred pairs of stilettos! Such obstacles and risks of future posture and back problems, however, do not get in the way of her taste and zest for foot ornamentation. A true fashionista, the worse her walk gets, the more heels she buys. I have witnessed her try on many, many pairs of shoes that have killed what could be a beautiful gait. In her eyes, if she has trouble walking in them, they must be good! We have been late for meetings and we have missed grabbing at least a hundred taxis because of her shoe-stopping pace. She even admits her husband hates it when she wears heels for that very reason.

It’s a small price to pay for glamour. And when she’s sitting, she sure does look good.

They’re Here! They’re Queer! We’re Used to It!

Fashionistas make the biggest fag hags. We herd the guys with the Flock of Seagulls haircuts. Our favorite designers are men who love men but adore women. After all, where would Amanda Harlech (a.k.a. Lady Harlech), who was once the muse of Karl Lagerfeld (damn, that woman must have the sickest wardrobe), be without Galliano? And what about Carine Roitfeld (editor of French
Vogue
) without Tom Ford? To fashionistas, gay men are vital accessories, an intrinsic part of our culture. They tell us the secrets to a man’s mind—and take us dancing till all hours of the night (so what if they wind up ditching us at the bar to go home with a hunk in a tight white Hanes tee?). They understand our style, crazy quirks, and neuroses, and know how to meet our emotional needs better than any boyfriend. Plus, they have no problem escorting us out when we have no date—and letting us know when it’s time to put down the fork at dinner (“No more carbs for you, missy!”).

Friends of Dorothy
MELISSA

When I was eleven years old, my older cousin Maté was a slightly chubby fifteen-year-old guy who went everywhere with a small Spanish fan. He channeled Karl Lagerfeld in a country where machismo trumped Moschino any day. He was strange and unusual, and like Winona Ryder in
Beetlejuice,
I noticed him because I myself felt strange and unusual, too. I was infatuated with Maté. He had an outsize personality and constantly greeted relatives with two slobbering kisses on both cheeks. He screeched instead of giggled and called everyone “dahhhlink!” Maté and I both agreed that our uncle,
Tito
Ed (
Tito
means uncle in Tagalog), who had immigrated to the United States, was just the bomb.

Tito
Ed had found success as a director in San Francisco. He staged full-blown, critically acclaimed productions of Broadway classics such as
Pippin
and
Oklahoma
in the Bay Area, as well as more unconventional fare like an all-male version of
Caligula.
When we picked up Tito Ed from the Manila airport in the early seventies, he walked out of the terminal wearing a bright orange jersey tank top, terry-cloth short-shorts, knee-high athletic socks, and platform flip-flops. His hair was teased into a bright red Afro and he was wearing huge, oversize sunglasses reminiscent of El-ton John. Rather than denying entrance to his conservative home-land and targeting him as a freak, the security officer asked him, “Are you a star?”

“Of course!”
Tito
Ed replied, collecting his matching black leather luggage special-ordered from Spain.

My family soon joined
Tito
Ed in San Francisco, and my favorite memory of that time is when Tito Ed visited to take my sister and me shopping. His favorite store was Neiman Marcus. At twelve, he gifted me with my first grown-up watch (a crocodile-strap Anne Klein with fourteen-karat-gold trim) and introduced me to his favorite designers: Alexander Julian, Ralph Lauren, and Perry Ellis.
Tito
Ed would bounce into our house, a fifty-year-old man wearing his signature outfit—white cotton short-shorts, knee-high socks, and a Perry Ellis “America” T-shirt with the stars-and-stripes pattern emblazoned across his chest. Like all fashionistas, he was never afraid to look slightly ridiculous, and commanded a great deal of respect from the theater department at the university where he was a tenured professor.