Martin Grant is bringing back something long lost to Australian airports – glamour. The Melbourne-born, Paris-based fashion designer, known for his sophisticated style has been commissioned to whip up a new batch of uniforms for Qantas hosties.
Grants’ will be the tenth incarnation of the national airline’s uniform since 1959, following designers like Yves Saint Laurent, Emilio Pucci, George Gross and Harry Who. His brief is simple: elegance and wearability, two words that have the ability to transcend any fashion disaster.
Pity this won’t extend to all travellers, because for us normal folk airports have become a den of excess, reckless eating and drinking and shopping for stuff we don’t need. In other words they’re a playground for slobs. And spoilt slobs at that who demand massages at midnight, gamble at dawn and drink beer with every meal.
This week I received some bad news. OK, it wasn’t as worrisome as misplacing a child, but it was worse than having a bird poo on my head – which also happened.
Anyway, grab the tissue box because it’s a biggie. Here goes… I can’t wear black. Yep, I can no longer wear the colour that makes you look slim, hides bulges and camouflages bolognese spills (a more frequent occurrence than I’d care to admit). LBD? Gone. Skinny black jeans? Finito. Timeless Audrey Hepburn style turtleneck? History.
This news was delivered by wardrobe consultant Sally Souter, a no-nonsense lady who solves style issues. You see, I have outfits aplenty, and most days I take the trouble to get dressed. (I could dispense with the whole clothes caper on days I work from home, but it’s really not fair to frighten the tradesmen.) But whereas opening my closet used to be akin to tiptoeing into Narnia – tantalising and full of expectation – lately it’s held all the appeal of teeth flossing.
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If there’s one thing complete strangers on the Internet have taught me, it’s that it’s cool to hate on hipsters. At least that’s what some hipster on Twitter told me.
The problem is, they’re becoming increasingly hard to pick out. Your mother, best friend, or favourite pet could be a hipster and you wouldn’t even know it.
Through clever use of poor fashion choices and general laziness, they’ve reached such an advanced level of irony that they are, in fact, indistinguishable from the rest of us. The best course of action, in these dark and uncertain times, is to simply treat everyone with suspicion.
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Quite possibly the most stupid thing I’ve ever done as a grown-up is to reinvent the Advent calendar. In the early days of motherhood, I was so determined that my children weren’t going to consume the cheap, meaningless chocolate versions from the supermarket, I created my own.
I bought fabric from Lincraft and asked my babysitter to stitch it into the shape of a tree, with little pockets numbered one to 25.
It started well, with me penning witty, educational notes and tucking them into the pockets alongside the odd preservative-free candy cane and felt tree decoration. ‘Find out how children celebrate Christmas in France,’ urged one. ‘Choose one of your toys to give to children who have nothing,’ prompted another.
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I have a sorry number of gorgeous, accomplished thirty-something girlfriends who no longer “do” swimming in public.
The backyard pool of a very close friend (preferably one who’s no oil painting) is a maybe, but only on a very hot day, with lots of encouragement and a glass of champagne.
It’s sad. Swimming is one of life’s great pleasures. But somewhere between the ages of 0 and 40 we have this tendency to morph from beach-loving babes to ladies (mothers in many cases) who feel totally inadequate about our imperfect bodies. As for swimsuit shopping, mention it at your peril.
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Last week a woman stood ahead of me in a queue dressed in acid-wash stirrup pants, high-top sneakers, a yellow sweatshirt and a bleached blonde crop with black roots. I looked at her. And I looked at her again. And I’ll be damned if I could tell you whether she was a 20-year-old working some serious 1980s revivalism or a 40-year-old clinging to the look from the first time round.
That’s the thing about 1980s style. It’s fashion’s great leveller. It makes absolutely everyone look middle-aged.
It’s quite a feat. It’s like the entire decade was manufactured by a special effects department. Take one fresh-faced 20-year-old. Add a boxy jacket, a button-front linen skirt, a short fluffy perm, mid-rise heels and sheer stockings and voila! A 45-year-old maths teacher.
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To me it will always be just a little bit Charlene from Neighbours… but in case you haven’t heard, double denim is back, baby - yeah!
‘’Double denim’’, of course being the good old denim shirt/ jacket with denim jeans/shorts combo of the ‘80s and ‘90s. AKA ‘’the denim suit’’.
And you can even feel free to team it with white sneakers a la Jerry Seinfeld in the mid 1990s. Reeboks perhaps, for a really authentic ‘’vintage’’ look.
It’s bloody cold and often wet by 11pm on a Saturday night in the eastern states at the moment.
Having walked down Rundle St, Adelaide and South Bank, Melbourne at this hour in the past couple of weeks, I have one burning question: “Why are all the pretty young girls freezing their bits off?”
Seriously, jackets seem to be very much out of style on four degree nights right now – and short, sleeveless, bare skin is in, both in and out of the pubs and clubs. It’s enough to make a past-it, pregnant, thirty-something like me feel slightly hypothermic.
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Not meaning to sound like a perve, but this but there’s fair bit of VPL (visible panty line), saddle bags (hip fat) and camel toe (surely I don’t need to explain that one) on show this season.
Leggings, worn badly, are to blame.
They’re in my local supermarket where women have just “popped” (in all sorts of manners) out for a few supplies. They’re in my local cafes and gym. And weirdest of all, they’re in my local CBD at peak hour (Bum crack for the office. Who would have thought?)
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The rules of the winter wardrobe are vastly different from summer dressing conventions in that they involve significantly more clothes - garments that the prohibitive heat of the summer months make unthinkable become indispensable through June and August.
This makes winter dressing both a unique pleasure and a minefield. Here are some guidelines on not making a fool of yourself this winter.
1. Leather jackets: Much like the Roll Neck (see below), leather jackets only very rarely work well. More often than not they are tricked up with embellishments to make the wearer look like an extra from The Fast and The Furious Tokyo Drift. Yes the girls are hot in that film (It was a long plane ride and I am a light sleeper) but the guys are knobs, which is what you will be in your new leather jacket.
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So the 15th edition of Rosemount Australian Fashion Week has ponywalked off into the sunset. So too, the event’s founder Simon Lock. What should have been one big knees-up, however, wound up feeling more like a wake for the outgoing IMG Fashion Asia Pacific managing director.
Five years after Lock sold Australia’s most high profile fashion event to the New York-based sports/lifestyle marketing powerhouse IMG and stayed on to helm the company’s regional fashion activities, apparently things haven’t gone so well. As New Zealand magazine editor Marian Simms quipped last week – only to have the phrase transformed into a Twitter hashtag meme, by Lock’s wife Lorraine - #itsalldanhillfromhere – Dan Hill being IMG Fashion’s Asia Pacific general manager.
Then in February this year, eight months before his contract was due to expire, IMG suddenly announced that Lock would be leaving the company. In the interim, reports have surfaced of tensions between Lock and IMG.
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