Quotes About Fashion

He had on a red sleeveless jumpsuit, black shirt with bell sleeves, high-heeled black patent leather boots with black laces. A full-length black leather trench coat hung open.

O'Mara sat back down and crossed his legs effortlessly. His freshly creased slacks were the color of butterscotch. His wing-tipped loafers were burgundy. He wore no socks. He had on a starched white shirt, open at the throat, and a blue blazer with brass buttons. My clothes must never fit that well, I thought. I'd be overwhelmed with sexual opportunities, and never get any work done. I promised myself to be careful.

She was sleek and stylish, every hair in place, slim and elegant. When preparing meals in the kitchen or baking a cake, she never appeared disheveled, never a dab of flour on her face. Even her aprons were stylish, not merely to protect her from spills or splashes. They matched whatever she was wearing.

I looked like an ad for Banana Republic. Maybe Banana Republic would give me a job. They could put my picture in their little catalog and under it they could say: Elvis Cole, famous detective, outfitted for his latest adventure in rugged inner-city climes!

Pike stood six-one and weighed one ninety-five, all ropy muscles and crimson arrows inked on his delts. He wore a sleeveless gray sweatshirt, sun-faded jeans, and running shoes. Dark glasses masked his eyes. No

Pike studied her. She was pretty and used to it, and the clothes and the hair indicated she liked being the center of attention, which would be a problem. The Savile Row suits were still piling up bags.

She said, "This isn't so bad." "Thanks. I think." The money vibe came off her like heat—the Rock & Republic jeans, the Kitson top, the Oliver Peoples shades. Cole was good at reading people, and had learned—over time—that he was almost always right. The trouble vibe came off her, too. She looked familiar, but Cole couldn't place her.

I had seen Tyson in person only once, and then from a block away. He was a nice-looking kid, but held himself close, as if wary. Amber was the opposite. She was lean, pretty, and her smile was bright with confident energy. A blousy, off-the-shoulder cream top exposed flawless skin, and long, slender legs were revealed by little white shorts that were loose, but not nasty. The Gucci sunglasses looked great on her.

It has an edge because it is so different. Soon imitators pop up everywhere. It becomes a fashion, something to conform to, even if the comformity appears to be rebellious and edgy. This can drag on for ten, twenty years; it eventually becomes a cliche, ppure style without any real emotion or need.

An errant May-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the intoxicated fashion affected by young bloods of May-flies seeing life.

He even invented being fashionably late.

I'm too sexy for my cape...

I'm too sexy for my cape, too sexy for my fangs. Too sexy

Yer skirt invites a man's attention. I've seen handkerchiefs that were bigger." She swung her handbag over her shoulder. "At least I wear underwear under my skirt." "I hope they're nice since everyone is sure to see them.

other dressed like someone who worked at some Internet start-up in Seattle.

I want a red dress. I want it flimsy and cheap, I want it too tight, I want to wear it until someone tears it off me. I want it sleeveless and backless, this dress, so no one has to guess what's underneath.

No one wears buckles anymore, and I decided to get him some real boots next winter solstice. Some sexy guy boots. Yeah.

The world was going to change again. I should have worn nicer shoes.

Apparently their numerous tattoos gave them protection against the cold as they had no coats.

You aren't kidding. But you know, it's likely going to be the only time I'll ever be that skinny and have a fur coat.

So that's why Ivy always used canvas bags . It wasn't because she was especially eco-minded. They were quiet.

Suddenly I felt vastly underdressed. Hell, even the woman dressed down as a hobo had diamonds on.

Worried, I touched the jacket's sleeve. "You think it's too much?" I asked, working hard to keep my tone non-combative. I'd had this conversation with ex-roommates before.

I was with a six-foot-four, athletic, angsty young man dressed in casual linen pants and matching fawn-colored shirt. Under it was a skintight two-piece suit of silk and spandex that had set us back a couple hundred dollars, but after seeing him in it, my head bobbed and my card came out.