Quotes About Fashion

It is of little use to quarrel with particular fashions, however absurd. Fashionable follies seldom stand their ground long enough to be made the objects of serious attack. And where they give way to it, it is only to reappear in some new guise.

She had not been sure what to wear—a classic peach maid of honor dress or a black leather corset. Her compromise: peach leather with a fringed hem, sleeveless so as to display arms with the relative dimensions and consistency of marble columns on a Georgian mansion. Big Cyndi's hair was done up in a mauve Mohawk and pinned on the top was a little bride-and-groom cake decoration.

Ian Cornwell tries too hard to look professorial—unruly hair, unkempt beard, tweed jacket, mustard-hued corduroy pants.

Jack bought it for $6.99 at T.J. Maxx, a discount clothing store where hip goes to die.

She was dressed in Seventies American Hooker—fishnet stockings, high boots (those two looks seemed to be a contradiction), a skirt that covered up as much of her as, say, a belt would, and a purple top so tight it could have been sausage casing. Myron

Today I'm wearing a light-blue Savile Row hand-tailored suit, Lilly Pulitzer tie, Hermès pocket square in the breast pocket, and Bedfordshire bespoke shoes custom made by G.J. Cleverley's lead craftsman on Old Bond Street. I

She was also dressed differently. The rest of the group, including Wiley Corval, had gone with the blue-blazer, khaki, loafer-sans-socks spirit, even if that wasn't exactly what they were wearing. Poor man's yacht club. Enid wore mom jeans, Velcro white sneakers, and a stretched-out cable-knit sweater that was a yellow usually found on a Ticonderoga pencil.

A model shoot was going on at half-court. Lots of those umbrella lights and tall, bony women-cum-children and tripods and people huffing and fluffing about. Myron waited for someone to mistake him for a model. And waited.

Aaron looked strung-out, wearing a denim jacket over a grungy white T-shirt—the latest in heroin chic minus the chic.

Dr. Mervosh wore a sweat suit so old-school that Myron almost looked for the Fila label. Her hair was blond and she wore a headband. The whole look was Early Eighties Björn Borg. "No

Since Kat had to return the Chick Trawler anyway, she and Stacy decided to meet up in the lobby of the Lock-Horne Building. Stacy wore a black turtleneck, sprayed-on blue jeans, and cowboy boots. Her hair cascaded down in ideal just-mussed waves, as if she simply got out of bed, shook her head, and voilà, perfection. If Kat didn't love Stacy, she'd hate her so much. It

Shauna stalks into a room as though it offends her. She was a plus-size model, one of the few known by one name. Shauna. Like Cher or Fabio. She stood six one and weighed one hundred ninety pounds. She was, as you might expect, a head-turner, and all heads in the waiting room obliged. Shauna

Peter Flannery had that athlete-gone-to-seed look. His once-golden locks had thinned and fled. His features were malleable. He wore a rayon three-piece suit—I hadn't seen one in a while—and the vest even had the pocket watch attached to a faux gold chain.

Whatever fortune Franch Ache had amassed, the man never dis spend it on clothes. He favored chintzy velour sweatsuits, like something the guys on Lost in Space might consider casual wear.

Myron looked at the door as Zorra entered in all his sartorial splendor. He wore his Veronica Lake–on–meth wig, a green monogrammed sweater, and a skirt in a hue Zorra would undoubtedly call "sea foam." When

They drew up her bosom to giddy heights, pinched in her waist, flared out her rear, and managed to suggest that Alexandra's had once been an hourglass figure.

There are no chic people in Texas.

Many are the women who can take their clothes off seductively, but women who can charm as they dress?

It was not just that he had terrible style: he also gave the impression that he was deliberately desecrating the very idea of wearing clothes.

Why do you guys all think girls with long hair are the classiest, the sweetest, the most feminine? I mean, I myself know at least two hundred and fifty unclassy girls with long hair.

They all dressed like crack addicts. A boy wore a white leather belt as a tie.

Eventually, I manage to cheer Mum up by allowing her to go through my wardrobe and criticize all my clothes...

Call me old-fashioned, but I did read in Glamour that one's shorts should always be longer than one's vagina.

I keep telling you nobody wants legs like a stick insect. They want a bottom they can park a bike in and balance a pint of beer on.