LV knew, hundreds of years ago, that his clothing would be GORGEOUS. He also knew that my dreams of stardom would one day exist. He chuckled at this thought, for he knew I would be looking at the clothes created in his name, in the name of luxury, and they would be thrown in my face. And he knew I would shed a tear, wishing I could wave a magic wand to make these couture pieces line up in my closet, beckoning me to bask in their ambience. HE KNEW. [ Continue Reading ]
Couture doesn’t get much sexier than this. Come-hither, Edward Scissorhands-esque lips that seductively whisper, “I applied my lipstick in the car on my way to work this morning;” A deathly, pallid complexion that just screams “I am not a peasant who toils outdoors– I am part of the bourgeoisie, and I remain within the confines of my manor, for I do not need to work for money;” lashless, red-rimmed eyes, complete with undereye circles; and headdresses crafted from the finest couture garbage bags around. This is beauty at its finest.
We’ve all made asses of ourselves. I tend to do it quite often. So often, in fact, that it’s now my “thing.” But now, Marloes ten Bhömer allows us a chance, not to cure foot-in-mouth syndrome, but to make sure we at least look cool while our traps are closed. They may not be Louboutins, but they certainly are eccentric. And in a world of Botoxed and veneered clones, who doesn’t want to be different?