With the New Year comes awards season and with it, all the Red Carpet attention.
That’s when Fashion Police come out in full force with their critiques of celebrity togs.
I like to believe I know what I’m doing when it comes to pulling together an outfit. I commit to memory any fashion tip I read or hear. I don’t think my colors clash, or my styles collide. I try to “dress my age,” as they say. Plus, I’m well aware of my pound-challenged frame and hopefully dress accordingly. However, one appearance before those Constables of Couture, and I fear I’d be toast.
I’ve watched this group critique celebrity outfits year after year at the Grammys, the Emmys, the Tonys and everything in between. Years ago, the Fashion Police were basically Joan Rivers, her daughter Melissa and any of their couture-conscious cohorts who might stop by. Those gathered would decide whether one’s outfit “works for you” or not. They make comments like, “She simply floats in that dress” or “He knows how to work that look.”
Of course, their disparaging remarks include “Did her designer have too many triple-shot cappuccinos the day he designed that gown? or “Where’s a dumpster when you need one?”
Having said that, The Fashion Police were willing to overlook many style faux pas – as long as jewels were involved. Dresses are worth six figures and the jewels they borrow for the occasion are in the millions. Sometimes, the lender of said necklaces, earrings and bracelets provide guards to watch their investment. Clearly, there were more “carats” here than in my homemade beef stew!
Little did I know the Academy Awards has had an Oscar Fashion Coordinator since 1991. That person contacts presenters and potential recipients, and then puts them in touch with potential designers. My guess is the Academy wants some coordination in its participants. One would simply not want to show up at the Oscars with a dress that clashed with one’s co-presenter.
Now the Fashion Police don’t just talk clothing here. They talk hair, makeup and basic grooming. They comment on those Hollywood divas who looked washed out and those leading men whose attempt at a sexy 5 o’clock shadow made them look scruffy instead. If I were expected to show up at such an event, I would be doomed in the hair department. I have such fine hair – not to be confused with mighty fine, mind you – so there’s no way I’d get a thumbs up from the critics.
Finally, while the Fashion Police didn’t address it, clearly a prerequisite for a distinguished presence on the Red Carpet is the ability to carry on a decent conversation. One must appropriately acknowledge one’s designer, one’s hairstylist and one’s latest project. Let’s see: My designer is “Whatever’s in the closet,” and my hairstylist is daughter, Erin – when I can get in to see her, that is. Otherwise, it’s take out the shears and whack away.
Oh, and the latest project? Maybe it’s time to write that great all-American novel – the one that everyone’s supposed to have within their soul.
Maybe not. I can barely get a weekly column submitted on time. How on earth could I ever write a book?