Miss Vanity Insanity - When Did You Leave The Building?

Dear Previously-Vain Mom,

I know exactly what’s happening with you of late. It’s shopping season. Yea babe, of course, it’s time to treat yo’self, to go back on all your Pinterest highlights and impractical wishlists, to pull them out of their wretched misery. It’s time to approach the pent-up towers of day-time fantasies that whizz you on the streets, your personal runway. You’re walking with your lil daughter wearing matchy-matchy, hot-off-the ramp fall outfits, even though deep down you know there’s no such thing as fall in Mumbai. I can feel your dizzying excitement, your shaky hands reaching out for that icy blue,  cape-top that you’d wear to theatre, friendly cocktails, brunches... Oooh, maybe even your kid’s cramped school parties, just to add a touch of wonderland to the whole meh set-up. I am with you woman, with my pom-pom lace-up sandals that nobody would really understand, even though I've tried to make everything about them (and not the boho-tassled jacket that I fought the urge to get on).

I know love. As unlikely as it sounds, you haven’t had the time (or the inclination) to go to the salon for months at a stretch, growing out your eyebrows. Here's hoping that they’d be as “on fleek” as Carla Delevigne’s in the bargain. (Upper lips? What, isn’t it Movember already?)

We've all been there. A clumsy stack of wishlists and to-do beauty appointments all neglected — taking a hard blow with the ever-changing indices of time and money. You cross by a salon in a mall while getting your groceries and you’re wondering, “Oh can I go in there for five minutes, just for a pep talk if nothing else?” And if the pretentious stylist with the mermaid highlights insists, perhaps a new haircut and whatever gets your game face on.

Pff…just keep walking. Fast!

I know you think just how risqué it seems to place yourself above your family — even in your mind. Maybe you haven’t even had the chance to think about what your kid’s Santa wishlist is or just how much your loving husband needs a new laptop. You don’t want to even get to your “pocket-size” realities, wincing at the mounting holiday bills that won’t look the other way even while you do a furtive swipe.

So you do the most parent-thing ever.

You make a futuristic-looking budget sheet with Draconian red highlights for where you should be cutting back and cute green stars for where you just can’t. You make amends to your lifestyle. For that week, there’s gonna be no takeaways and no wine. Insufferable yes but you gotta suck it up. We’ll call it detoxing OK. You’re now close to blocking your favourites on your shopping destination. “Know what? I’ll go right now and swipe my credit card just to show just how much I want to marry you, red block heels.”

With bated breath, you get to the store, cross-crossing and shoving your way to your trophy. You’re through with the two stages leading up to a purchase -
1. Getting down on your knees and proposing.
2. Justifying your unadulterated love to an imaginary jury, one that features Morgan Freeman just for his intimidation quotient.

But then, out of the clear blue sky, there comes this creepy voice that sounds so much like your mom, “Drop the reckless heels and turn back right now!”

In your mind, you’d imagined a 5-piece orchestra to celebrate that moment when you get your hands on those seductive beauties. I mean just look at them. They’re elevating your naturally-distressed tee to glam rock status in one awkward slip. But that voice — uggh — as always, it’s a party pooper, right? Blinking back tears, you step away from the counter — dishevelled, sweaty, brow-growing, unhappy mom leading the way to a blooming teen, blinged to perfection.

Meanwhile, your cute little princess has wandered off to find impractical furry boots for herself. Now, it’s your turn to be that menacing voice. You look at her sternly, thinking, “Yea, yea, drop the act, Droopy. I invented it.”
“We’re not getting you furry boots!”

And you have the jury on your side. In a trice, her adorable yelps have turned into blaring screeches in some kind of supersonic frequency. Everybody is staring at you. You’re a haggard mom who’s had her candy snatched away from her. You have every right to be made of stone. That sweet girl from the queue is now strutting towards you with her “Aww. Have a heart” look. You fight the urge to run with her shopping spoils. Before she can say anything to you, you say to her, “Wait till you have yours.” You vaguely expect her to giggle in understanding but she looks at you and says the last thing you’d want to hear, “Come on Aunty, it’s Diwali.”

Wait, what? Yes, you have a kid so you’re an Aunty. But biologically speaking, that girl was old enough to have a kid the size of yours. Arrrgh! So now you’re gritting your teeth violently and looking more and more like an addict OD-ing in broad daylight. Your kid continues to stare at you, clutching tight to her furry bunny boots, with Bambi eyes.

This was supposed to be a happy, self-pampering, shopping bags-swinging-in-arms sort of day. And there you are. Having a breakdown.

You take a deep breath and grab the boots from her. You make a beeline for the counter. One short click and paper-rustling later, you’re on the other side. Without your block heels.

But strangely, you feel a heavy weight shedding away instantly. And when you look at your daughter now, you don’t see an annoying, clinging predator raiding your shopping lists and personal ambitions. You see a little girl, so much a part of you that her radiant smile is the only thing that matters. Sometimes, even before yours.

It’s Diwali and you may not have got even close to getting what you want for yourself. You may have had spells of longing and mood-swings thinking about how much you need to refuel your fashion and beauty lusts. You may even cut the detoxing short — it’s not your best “Happy Holidays” version but you do what you need to cope. Sooner or later, your husband offers to take you shopping, and you’re back to feeling loved and wanted and sane.

And one day, most likely during a Diwali wardrobe cleanse, you will stumble upon a completely impractical, gorgeous, chiffon halter with choker beads. Wearing with pride an expensive price tag. Hesitantly, you’ll take the trip down the memory lane. You will chance upon the the impulsively-broke girl version of you in her early twenties with an empty wallet and a closet full of secret clothes she’s still to wear for her dreamy fairytale moment that’s yet to happen.

You smile to yourself, hold the weightless relic from the past to the sun and wonder, “Miss Vanity Insanity — when did you leave the building?”

I Didn’t Do My Eyebrows For Five Months And This Is What I Learned

Being in my 30s hasn't been as horrific as they make them out to be. (By "they", I mean a bunch of us as late twenty-year olds talking about the dreaded thirties.) It's been eye-opening, to say the least.

For one, they made me realize that my hair genes have clearly come from the wrong side of the family - my dad's. When I was in my teens, every other person came up to me and told me how much they envy my curly, glossy mane. In return, I usually just gave them a quizzical expression and said, " Well, it's just there, thanks to my beautiful mother."It's true. I didn't really do anything for my curls back then. I shampooed them once a week, rubbed some coconut oil into my strands carelessly, tied them into a braid before going to school and that was my only interaction with them. I left them wild and loose on Sundays.

My hair now has lost most of its sheen, its voluminous locks. I'm struggling to make best of this aspect of my appearance. I have tried nearly ever trick in the book, sang hair elegies that start with "O curly locks, whither thou goest...", bathed them in gentle sunlight and water, doused them in wonder oils from around the world, even rubbed garlic on my hair.( For nearly two days after which, every time I entered a room, everyone went, "Hmm, who got hummus?")

Image Source:Wikipedia

Of course, as my obsession increased, so did my hair fall. So I decided to tune off from it for some time. Instead, I took unending, unadulterated, liberating joy in not doing my eyebrows. Slow hair growth meant my eyebrows took all the time in the world to grow back into unkempt, Kahlo-ish, power-brows —  which I'd give anything to sport now.

But if you had seen me in my over-tweezed, fine strokes of brown arches before, you would know that not doing my eyebrows was a revolutionary step! There was a time in my work-life when I tweezed my eyebrows on a weekly/fortnightly basis. It reached a point of insanity when I took brow matters into my own hands and accidentally shaved a healthy chunk of it, only to be filled in with artistic pencil strokes and drops of castor oil for nearly two months after.

Why did I tweeze them to oblivion back then? Was I a brow-maniac? Why did I not feel tempted to tweeze out my husband's unibrow in his sleep then?( God knows I've thought about it.) I am not sure if it had to do with the beauty revolution around barely-there eyebrows in the early 2000s or if it was something someone said and I'm sure it pretty much rounds up to an eyebrow-repressed childhood that led to such aberrant behavior.

Faint Brows From Early 2000s

You'd think why do you have to be in on my inconsequential brow journey and how's that saving the world anyway? It may not change the world ( then there is Decembrow) but it did change me.

Monumentally. I haven't put my eyebrows anywhere near a tweezer/scissor for five months now. I also visited a salon and sat next to a girl with perfectly-groomed, lush eyebrows being quizzed by a cocky, fancy-pants "art stylist" with a sorry expression, "Tell me darling. On a scale of 1-10, how happy are you about your brows?" Right before he gave her a ten-minute sales talk on how he can get them to be like Carla Delevingne's in under five minutes. He took a pregnant pause - also to give me a quick, unapologetically brutal, side glance that sent chills down my spine. I sat there not knowing what to say with my blotchy, assymmetrical eyebrows but feeling like a million dollars nevertheless as my head went through a slow, glorious massage.

There are many labels that a woman's unkempt eyebrow carries in society - laziness, tomboyishness, long marriage, lack of hygiene, motherhood, workaholism, abnegation, homosexuality and the buzzword of late, feminism. Now I don't know which one of them I'd have you subscribed to in my case. I would like to call it an act of feminism, not one that would necessarily change lives of repressed women or social norms. Back then, I stared obscenely at brows of all shapes and sizes - in class, in ladies rooms, at weddings and passed them through the same judgmental magnifying glass that the art stylist passed mine. Now, I can't help wondering why I made that half-hour trip to the salon, waited in lines for the right stylist, obsessively looked into their pocket mirror till my brows were lean-mean identical twins.

And while we're on the subject of body hair, I also wonder why,  we went through the torture chambers of waxing booths, sitting for nearly two hours letting out muffled ouchies; before we could let ourselves experience the joy of butterflies in our stomachs in anticipation for a big date.

All of which adds up to this. In my twenties, I looked at my face in little parts and segregations. I obsessed about perfecting each one of them. I looked at myself from every angle, not much as a whole. In my thirties, I'm learning to see myself straight in the eye. I'm learning to look into my eyes and find happiness, regrets, guilt, compassion, all the works and triggers of the left-brain beneath.

I'm learning to look at myself and question the point of my vanity-insanity.

So, attacking each of my obsessions moving from my head down, these bushy maidens have risen from my pre-teen era to be the wild biatches they were meant to be, looking a tad too intimadating when turned into a scowl, looking feverishly alive when turned up in a smile.

Whatever meaning these sneaky lines of varying widths may have carried for women through the years, for me, the way they are now, ungroomed and untamed, they represent a precursor to another age, another obsession, another version of me perhaps.

The Line of Beauty - In Between Waking Up and Stepping Out The Door

Half Make-up Face

I've reached a point in my life where looking at the mirror is just Step 1 of doctoring my best artificial self that make-up can buy. I can't really trace the beginning of it but it's sort of ebbing its way slowly into everything that I can touch my hands upon. Like this morning, as I was getting my daughter Saanvi ready for school, I noticed a prominent red rash on her left cheek. It itched my senses to see my little girl, with her flawless child-like vibrance, to be sporting something as nasty as a huge blotch on her cheek. But the first visual that crossed my mind wasn't really a Sherlock-like mental timeline to backtrack to its source (as with most mommies), but visual flashcards of tools in my make-up kit that'd come in handy to conceal it. I stood there debating if it's too early to dab some wholesome foundation on her pink cheek and then it struck me.

I have turned into a make-up junkie...an f-ing Kardashian so to speak. (Ahem, minus the fan following ofcourse.)

I guess it must've started in college. You see, I have pale complexion and sad eyes. I needed a better college face. In my quest for the perfect outer-world face, over the years, I have devised a morning routine that'll get me through the day without hearing the words, "Oh, are you not well?" "Are you depressed? Your eyes... they're doing that thing." or "OMG, did a cat scratch your head?" This magic routine, although not as hard-hitting on time, takes a bunch of hand-picked products and gadgets. Needless to say, even if one of them is missing, like them dominoes, it all comes crumbling down and I just know I'm heading for disaster. I can recount at least three vacation memories which, although very much intended for a state of nirvana, started with a spike in heart rate and anxiety levels, cos I realized that I don't have my make-up primer or the multi-plug extension cord to my blow dryer. (Read agony aunt.) 

My outer-world face is fairly predictable, like a uniform. I almost never look like I got a make-over (cos they scare the jeepers out of me). Sometimes, you'll see a pretty good crimson pout. On really good days, you'd see no kohl, hair worn off my face, earrings and dewy skin. And on really crappy days, an awful attempt at a winged eye-liner (picture my left eye chasing my right) or a nasty blotch of green all over my eyelids with a trampy lipstick. I mean if you ever look at me and feel tempted to ask me if my four-year old did my make-up for me, take my word for it. DON'T.

Elizabeth Taylor once said, "Pour yourself a drink, put on some lipstick, and throw yourself together." She got that right. Make-up to a woman (well, most women) is therapeutic. For me, the ritual of make-up is what I like to call my me-time, just some good ol' quality time getting my game face on and zoning out of the everyday grinds of an ordinary mum's life. For starters, it's an escape route.  Remember this? You're having a couples' night and you're not really having the wildest of fun, listening to the men go on and on excitedly about "the game". Et voila! One of your other girl friends, a freakin' mind-reader, goes, "I gotta go to the ladies room." And you say, rather too quickly, "Oh, I'll come with! Need to brush my hair." And the men at the table exchange these looks, smirking to themselves, "Oh, there goes an hour unexplained. We'll call you when the food gets here." And one of them makes this casual remark, "You know, you don't need to look pretty for us!" They don't get it. But that remark — it gets you really peeved for some reason. It makes you wonder, "Do I really wear make-up to get the attention of my man, to be noticed, to get first dibs at cocktails from the bartender in a crowd, in other words, to have it my way? Or do I wear make-up to put myself out there among the sea of beautiful young women, unknowingly batting their eyelashes in conformity with vague beauty standards that even a teenage Beauty Youtuber would demonstrate with her shiny, happy Disney beauty box?

I'm not even going to pretend that all those allegations are not partially true for me but mostly, I wear make-up to play with all the possibilities that, at least on the surface, my face can offer. Cos while I find it very hard not to be cynical most of the times, at least my face can help brighten things up for me. And I need not reiterate that it is a super-fun ritual. It has even lowered its mystical quotient, so that an otherwise klutzy woman like me, who cannot sit still for an eye-liner, can now draw a perfectly curvy line on her eyelids. Make-up is for everyone. Or so it seems. Even if you thought you could just go #iwokeuplikethis or #nomakeup on Instagram, there'd be at least two products/hacks you'd be thinking of exploring before you can dare to show your raw, carefully-curated, au naturel self to the world. 

But there are times, especially when you're sitting in a circle playing that self-introspective game, "If you could take only three things to a remote island, what would they be?", you have to ask yourself, "Can I live without making myself up? Can I bloody walk out that door, reacquainting myself to my bare skin in sunlight without having to feel naked? Can I revel in my dishevelled curls, small mouth, pools of under-eye darkness and all the tiny imperfections that make me who I am? Sure, maybe in a post-apocalyptic world, I could get used to the idea. Or when I'm lying down on the beach feeling one with nature, when a waterproof eyeliner just seems a bit much. (Then again, one of those aqua-coloured lines on the lower lids would look very zen-like.)

Nevertheless, I want to be able to teach my daughter, who's also a keen spectator of the art of face-painting, that it is important to accept who you are for every little detail that makes you YOU . I want to be able to teach her about the delicate balance between caring too much and not caring at all. Not sure if I can set a shining example though as I still struggle to come to terms with my real face. Maybe, getting to my mid-thirties, I also wear make-up as a war-paint against time, to be seen as I am, and not by the flaws that would take some wincing when seen on a reflective surface in bright lights. Maybe I wear it to save time from all the faux soul-searching with my mirror reflection, ones that start with, "Well, sure you've lost your natural twenties luminous skin. But look at what you've gained in wisdom."( Don't you hate wisdom?)

I hope one day I can show her, through example, that a face untethered from such worries is usually the most distinct, most breathable, most gleaming. And what we should really be after is finding comfort in our own skin before we go finding 5 dupes for Priyanka Chopra's Oscar lipstick.

And I hope one day, I wake up to that piece of wisdom and take it with me as I step out the door. I can only imagine how liberating that would be.


"If you could take only three things to a remote island, what would they be?"

Have you given this a thought? I'd love to hear from you in your comments...

Finding Your Spot At The Front Row Style Sorority

So you've got your golden ticket. You can already picture yourself hobnobbing with the likes of Manish Malhotra, Suneet Verma, Malini Agarwal and Bandana Tewari. The only blank slate - the one that's going to make or break your appearance is your #OOTD. What do you wear to an event that's got the most stylish and influential show-goers with sky-rocketing tastes in designers, donning even the most impractical-looking drapes and capes with an ice-cool ease, as if it's how everyone should be wearing it?

How do you dress to impress? Take a style tour as these runway maverns show us how to nail the science of front-row chic with these curated fashion-week lessons :

1. Colors Seem to Fade:

Leandre Medine At NYFW

As a first-timer, it may be best that you wear colors that agree with your skin tone and will see you through the day without wearing you down. Feeling adventurous? Punctuate an all-out cool or earthy tone with some sassy play of colors coupled with layered accessories.

2. Dressing the Part:

Bandana Tewari at AIFW

Whether you're going to be a lean-mean fashion editor or a flamboyant social animal, get your look right. Dress to play your part but also show us who you are - the designers you're promoting, the cause you stand up for, your personal brand ... ANYTHING.

Santu Misra at AIFW

3. Wear Your Skin:

Pernia Qureshi at AIFW

With the longest legs of the country and the most influential style icons in attendance, it's easy to lose your edge. Opt for a flattering fit tailored to perfection. A timelessly chic form-fitted dress or a leather pencil skirt paired with some killer heels or your edgy sneakers may just be the thing for you.

Shehrazade D at AIFW

4. The Accidentally-Cool Thing:

The messy vibe is the hardest to get right. You can still try to fool the fashion brigade that you don't give a damn with a bomber jacket, fringes, accentuated sequins and hats.

5. Silhouettes and Cuts:

Fashion weeks see a lot of experiments with twisted knots, cuts and layers and flowy silhouettes. Try an inspired look by teaming your boring denims and tee with a cape. Alternatively, try an adventurous tunic knot over your shorts with wedges or boots to go with.

6. Going Down and Desi:

Who said that going to a fashion week needs to make a hole in your wallet? Root for Indian fabrics and drapes. Fringe your saree palla or wear a dhoti-style drape with pants.  And boys, here's how you can embrace dhoti pants.

7. Let's Get Loud - And Proud

Nandini Bhalla

Chances are you may not want to go all-out, loud colours in your first encounter with the fashion police. But if you are up for it, our guess is you're from the fashion blogger community. Show us your wild streak. Mix muted colors with bursts of flashy.

Pardeep Singh Bahra

8. Getting Bohemian and Feminine:

Monica Dogra 

Take a cue from this effortless, off-duty feminine look from Monica Dogra. You see her unfettered side-slits long maxi matched with a bindi, peep-toes and beachy tresses and you know you want to have what she's having.

9. The Devil's In The Denim Details:

Preeti Dhata a LFW

Show us some denim love by spinning around your boyfriend jeans with bright patches. Distress your shorts or jeans, personalize it, stud it and pull them off with the right accessories.

Sylvannus at LFW

10. Take a Time Capsule:

Amrita Puri

Draw from the old world with retro suspender belts, crisp white shirts and poufy skirts, modest necklines and retro jumpsuits. Play it up with color, dramatic curls and accessories.

Karan Berry

Want to add more fashion inspirations to the list? Tell us how you will make a smashing appearance at the front row.

Shopaholic Diaries

Hello readers!
Here I am, after an unfortunate bout of writer's block and three mid-way abandoned posts - three pretty different subjects - including one that was about religious intolerance and freedom of expression. How I arrived here, I've no damn clue! You can blame all the ongoing sales in the city and an inordinate amount of time spent, vying for all shapes and sorts of online clothes! From planning ensembles for a happy, happy time in the offing to thinking about how I can add a much-needed twist to my drab wardobe to quietly lusting for all the Guccis and Miu Mius and Riddhi Mehras - madly spun into a covetous, orgiastic dream so surreal that it hazes away all pocket size realities. (Pocket size - how I hate that phrase.)

In the utopian state, I'd be wearing all these clothes. I'd drop Saanvi to school in Masaba shift dresses. I'd go to the mall wearing completely impractical crop tops and skirt ensembles. I'll take her for a walk wearing Ralph Lauren shirtdresses and Manolo Blahniks. I mean what the hell, I could even sleep in my Manolos; I'm sure I'd be a totally different person in them. In a fashion neverland, that mystical place without price tags, I guess, to each their own.

Undoubtedly, clothes maketh the woman. I grew up with a fashionista who was hell-bent on giving me makeovers and adding that magic touch to my awkward, oversized shirt clad existence. (In my defense, I had trouble accepting my slow-changing body.) Our favorite game was dress up. I'd try out some of her clothes and once or twice, I may have struck gold with that perfectly-fitting skirt and that figure-hugging tank. I felt my whole unsure demeanour melt away. All I had to do was pretend I was someone else and walk out with my head held high and confident.

That never happened. I never really got out of my skin to embrace myself in them. But my obsession for those seamlessly transformative clothes that make you feel new every time never ceased ever since. And when I started making my own money, it translated into endless hours in the trial room trying out different fits, different styles, walking out with them elated and handing them over at the cash counter. But then it wasn't as if I had a ton of money. I had to smart shop. I had places to shop for everyday clothes. I had others for funky clothes. And then I had some for splurges. These clothes were safely lodged in my wardrobe to be worn to work and to play, and then there were some, to never be worn at all...

More than often, I got asked, "Where did you get this blouse?" And no, it wasn't followed up with a catty remark like, "Remind me never to shop there." It was genuine appreciation! And I felt like I had to keep it up. I started web-stalking my fashion inspirations at the time. One of them was Mischa Barton from OC. For all of you, who're wondering who she is, she shot to fame with the character of Marissa Cooper from OC but then her career went spiralling down fast, while her poor stretched-to-the-limit pants took the pain of it all; to be followed by rehab and controversies. But I loved her on-duty, uniquely feminine style so she became my most influential style icon. I started hunting down cheaper mimics of her Dior-Chanel wardobe. I started trading my bad days with stilettos and Chanel-inspired dresses; some that I still own and I dare confess, have never got to see the light of day.

Marissa Cooper in Her Prom Dress - OC

Clothes have always been my driving force. They've driven me to work harder, to take up better-paying jobs. Thankfully, I never really got on to the world of maxing out credit cards. I was always wary of my addiction so credit cards were completely off limits. I spent most of my salary at the beginning of the month on all my sartorial cravings and lived on a tight budget the entire month. My dad often came to my rescue and lent me cash.

Keeping up appearances was difficult underneath a crumbling mess, an uncontrollable urge to spend every rupee on a great-looking bag or a pair of boots that I saw on OC. And then I got married. I had a brand new wardrobe. My cravings took a back-seat for a few months. I didn't have many social obligations outside the family for some time and my trousseau of sarees and salwar kameezes were enough. But when we started venturing out, I'd go back to feeling insecure about the way I am lagging behind on all the street-style mise-en-scene. I started lusting for things yet again. Saving images on my phone so that I don't forget about all my coveted designs. I went back and got those designs created whenever I had a little extra cash. I started working and spending my salary on work-wear and bags and social obligations and weddings to go to. My shopping, however, was now under check because I had to justify everything in my shopping bag to my husband, who knew me all too well to let me tread down the same path again. But then once in a while, I shopped secretly. I couldn't let my old habits die such a boring death. I knew I was cheating on him but I couldn't resist the perfumey smell of a brand new dress or the clonk-clonk of new leather.

It's been four years since I got married. I have a two-year old daughter who looks up to me for every little thing. I feel the pressure of setting a shining example to her. But if you were to secretly browse through my phone even now, you'll see designer label porn in my Downloads folder. You'll see images of seductive drapes blatantly marked in scarlet on browsing through my Vogue mag rack. I don't have my own income to splurge on runway whims any more and neither do I have that sort of carefree disposition. The only Chanel I own is a half-way used perfume bottle. I shop at Forever 21 and Zara and sometimes I get my outfits tailor-made. I sleep on my Vogue and Harper's Bazaar must-haves and I find that the next day, they don't seem as pressing. I'm less prone to spending on a colour of a bag or shoe that doesn't go with most of my outfits. I can't say I have complete control over my urges and my heart skips a beat every time I walk past the Anita Dongre store or look at the words "New Arrivals" on Pernia's Pop-up. But finally, I've found that comfortable spot when I can make eye-contact with dolled-up mannequins and say, "I don't really need you in my life right now." or a dismal "Honey, I can't afford you."

And walking away for once feels pretty damn good...

Shirt Up!

If I were to pick one style statement from the streets of all fashion capitals and freeze it right there....in that moment...whether it is soaking up the warm steam of a coffee mug at an open cafe, getting ruffled to find a spot inside a busy night club, or bringing out the peachy blush of a first date, it's gotta be the versatile and deceitfully playful shirt dress. It's an all-time classic, understated and silent, and yet when you don't see it catwalking down the runway, it leaves you edging off your seat and wondering whatever happened to it.

But this feat of clever fashion is not just a cool, boyfriend-hacked, nonchalant piece of clothing. Sure, all it asks for is a good laundry before slipping it on, to splash on all over your travel diaries and day dates in places where a dress code's non-existent . But I think it's a bit crafty; it lends itself effortlessly to new meanings...It's the stepping stone of a Tomboy into embracing her feminine side. Yea, just like wearing a shirt, only longer and no pants. It's a saving grace for a new mum nursing her baby; she can occasionally come up for air to feel sexy and confident, after a long-stretched period of being drowned in her oversized maternity clothes. And what more, it's so accessible that it goes with everything. It's sort of like a cool cat with many trendy reincarnations.  (Well, probably not as many as the fashion faux-pas of the Kardashian sisters.)

My love with the shirt dress began as a 13-year old, when dressing up like my own gender was equivalent to going to a costume party. But then one day, I went shopping with a friend to one of those dingy, disorganized places that everyone raves about but where when you go looking, you only find clothes that smell like death and give you a suspicious sort of rash. Fortunately for me, I came across a signature, zippered denim shirt dress. It was the perfect length and fit, and it made me feel feminine in small doses, which was all I could ask for in a dress at that time. As it was the first dress that made me swoon like a little girl,  it only seemed proper I wore it to my first solo travel to Dubai (with another family though). Of course, my dad wasn't as thrilled to bits about it. I distinctly remember him saying out loud, "You forgot to put your pants on" when he saw me in it.... in front of the nice people I was to travel with. I gave him a steely stare and was about to launch into my personal rendition of "Smells Like Teen Spirit"...but instead I smiled. That dress...it already felt like it belonged.

But I know what you're thinking. A shirt dress is breezy and relaxed thus is a staple summer feature. What has it got to do with the moment, considering we're bidding adieu to the monsoons now and inching towards fall/winter. (But hey, who's ever heard of winters in Mumbai, right?)

And this is what I'm here to show you. How this sneaky item of clothing can not only transition from spring to fall but transform itself from a cute girl-next-door to a sharp, austere woman who means business to a seductive Sharon Stone-like demi-goddess.

Here are my top 5 picks,  randomly collected from movies and fashion mags:

1. The Holiday Shirtdress:
I'm in love with Rachel McAdams 80's, Ralph Lauren-inspired, belted shirt dresses in Midnight in Paris. The classic belted shirt dress in crisp natural fabrics like linen, light as summer breeze, couldn't make a day dress look more flattering and fuss-free.
Pair it with flats or wedges, put on a bit of blush (or just pinch your cheeks hard enough) and let your over-sized slouchy hobo do all the drama.

Image Source: Clothesonfilm

2. The Work and Play Shirtdress:
I think this is a great dress to fall upon for one of those days when you've gotta transition from workdesk to cocktail dinner and you don't have the luxury of a change in outfit. A cinched silk shirtdress in a fun, abstract print with a statement belt is flirty and feminine (without causing an unnecessary stir at work, of course).

Image Source: Bestfashionblog

3. The Fancy-Pants Brunch Shirt Dress:
I mean who says a shirt dress has to look like an elongated shirt when you can tweak it with a cascade of swooping under-layers and adorn it with a fierce belt? Style it with nude flats or gladiators and an envelope clutch.

Image Source:Vogue

4. The Shirt Gown:
Isn't it amazing that you can do your own fairy tale thing in a shirt? Opt for a shirt gown in airy fabrics and soft pastels. Feeling adventurous? Add to that a scandalous mid-thigh high cut and you're sure to stop traffic everywhere. (But hey, for the sake of frustrated commuters, please don't try this in Mumbai.)

Image Source: Pernia's Pop-Up Shop

5. The Fall-Summer Shirt Dress:
I mean yes, for places where the temperatures drop a significant amount in fall, the shirt dress is not practical. You can still layer it with sweaters and overcoats, add a snuggly scarf and get your smashing knee-length boots on. But if you happen to live in a place where winter just signifies a change in color palette and silhouettes, then try this one. A simple black or olive drop-waist shirt dress in a fluid fabric such as silk with a plunging neckline and a midi-length. Glam it up with a chunky neckpiece and pointed-toe pumps and voila! You've nailed the science of chic. Nothing spells more oomph and femininity as this one, I say.

Image Source: Elle

Personally, I can't wait to get my hands on the fall-summer shirt dress and the shirt gown as I've pledged undying love for this fabulous invention. I'd like to call it the summer of my life rippling all over fall and winter :).

Great Gatsbian Vogue- More Everything!

So this weekend, I finally put on my brave face and sat down to watch a movie that I'd been dying to see for really long. But somehow, I just couldn't summon the courage to witness the silver screen manifestation of what can only be known as the Fitzgerald's greatest prose and a significant allegory of the fuzzy Jazz Age. The movie was a kaleidoscopic delight to the eyes but missed an important detail - the disclaimer that before watching this movie, pull the intellectual mantle down and keep all your cult worshipping at bay.

My first impression was "Wow, this movie's far more grandiose than my imagination....Tad loud though, eh?" The way Baz Luhrmann gives us an obscenely flamboyant and a larger-than-life theatrical rendition to the beautiful, sombre prose of Fitzgerald was not quite what I expected, to say the least. However, as you watch the movie, you realize that it is this reinterpretation that struck a chord somewhere. And thus, swaying to Jay-Z urban hip-hop and donning a flapper-style spirited nonchalance, we are flimsily glided through Gatsby's life in a lavish and an emotionally-charged ride, much like one of his party crashers.

All of which adds up to the fact that this movie is not about delicacy or light breezes or the lyrical prose of Fitzgerald that coolly embodied the bittersweet abstractness of his characters' mental landscape. It is about the jarring cacophony of money, the overstated thoughtlessness of a hedonistic lifestyle, and above all.....Prada's exquisite tribute to the Flapper woman's exuberance and flair.

Right, about the fashion then. So if you're a "less is more" sort of fashion enthusiast, then read no further as the flapper style statement was all screeching, in-your-face embellishments of crystal and lustrous pearls, fur collars, opulent headdresses and jewel-encrusted gowns. The Roaring Twenties woman, the one armed with money and who was, I believe at that time, making waves to embrace the new and shed old inhibitions, obviously couldn't resist the swagger of excessive consumerism. And sartorially, Miuccia Prada and Catherine Martin were spot on in depicting her! This iconic woman unabashedly wore her shimmering "I couldn't care less" attitude on her sleeve with a trademark ease, and that's what makes her truly modern. No wonder, designers are drawn to the Flapper woman time and again in an attempt to touch her spirit and shape her mercurial personality in all kinds of feathery fabrics that dance up a storm when urged into the slightest motion.

So here are my personal favourite costume picks for two of the most iconic women of the 20s

1. Daisy Buchanan:

Daisy Buchanan...The girl we hate so much that we love her to death...fleety, impressionable, selfish and of course, highly-coveted. The golden girl with sad, enchanting eyes and the voice full of money... who's incapable of real emotions - her artifice is the stuff that legends are made of, probably the same stuff that inspired reality TV too.

We can only conclude that Daisy Buchanan is not an easy woman to style, for she's all about the manic, dream-like light she radiates, more than her wealth and glamour quotient. And Miucca Prada, although she confesses that none of the dresses were inspired by the 20s fashion, has captured her essence with perfection. Floaty silhouettes, ruffled feathers, fringes, faux collars, sheer silks, enhanced with bejeweled overlays and flashy headdresses all work like magic to enhance her Bambi-ness. Cary Mulligan's slender frame in sharp body-hugging dresses and the absurd burst of colors, fringes and sparkle, are totally in tandem with the over-the-top lifestyle of the 20s. Ofcourse, I didn't think any of her dresses, stunning as they were, are wearable otherwise. Nevertheless, the winner of all for the sheer craftsmanship is this magnificent chandelier dress with a dangling crystal overlay and the diamond-encrusted headdress.

Chandelier Dress

FYI, the ruffled fabric details in this lavender and cool blue garden dress were a strong influence from the 20s as women of that time wanted to emphasize movement through dress and make the most of their hip swings.

Garden Dress

I'm personally in love with this black robe! This stars in my to-be-designed list as a short black silk kimono dress with similar details. I think it'll be very flattering for a relaxed lounge wear sort of thing. Unfortunately, I couldn't find a better image but if you've seen the movie, you know what I'm talking about.

Black Silk Robe

Jordan Baker:
Strong, sexy, debonair, fiercely independent and modern, not just in her look but spirit. Jordan's not tied down by the men who're with her, much contrary to someone else we know. She's a pragmatist and also a highly-skilled golf champ, the occupation itself lending to her largely boyish mannerisms and choice of wardrobe. "She wore her evening dress, all her dresses, like sports clothes.", Fitzgerald quotes. But the essence of Jordan Baker is not her gawkish, masculine personality but that she's unconventional, aloof and has a likeable coldness to her. Baz Lurrmann retained all that and gave her a raw sensuality and a sophisticated look that is more recent than the 20s. Because her wardrobe's more relatable and not silly and soppy like that of the other one's, (considering we're in 2014), she becomes the fashion protagonist of the movie.



The narrow breastplate of sparkle frames her slender shoulders gorgeously! This dress is perfection for her as it brings out her the strong, resilient and slightly lethal personality - that is so Jordan Baker. The black veiled hat gives her an enigmatic edge.

Jordan Baker 

Ah, this geometric satin silk tunic with its sheen in that lovely color of champagne! Teamed with beige pallazos and strings of pearl, there's nothing that can look more sleek and elegant and above all fuss-free! The only drama going on is in her smokey eye make-up and coral pout. Thumbs up!

In all, I am not really impressed with this loud and shallow representation of Fitzgerald's subtle prose (and I would have really liked to believe that underneath all those collossal party scenes, the characters were deeply broken and misguided). The only saving grace that shines through, like the  Fitzgerald novel, are the costumes of the movie. Maybe they did betray the factual Flapper fashion by adding modern elements but strangely enough, the contemporary twist is what brought his prose to life for me.

The Monk Who Wore Prada

There's stuff...And then there's more stuff. And before you know it, they're out there!

Ever witnessed something brand new in your closet that you hadn't the faintest idea you had? And of course, now it doesn't even make your heart race. Oh no it doesn't...While it might have stayed parked in your cool cat closet yearning for a comeback, it's about time it died a quiet, merciful death. And maybe it's time for a whole new focus, a fresh look at value. (Not suggesting another shopping expedition here...Hell no.)

Life's complicated. You have the things you want to do and be and the things you actually get to do, aka. the hard-boiled reality. And in the midst of this gory battle of worlds is the gleaming refuge that you may not necessarily have the time for a life hack but you can, in the meantime, buy your worth of content and happiness; what we popularly call Retail Therapy. And hey we all know it works like a charm. I remember how at the beginning of every month, flush with cash, I would sprint to all those fabulous window displays with dizzying lust, ogle my way in and claim all the season must-haves. Everything seemed right up my alley and I would always emerge with bags and bags of lace-paneled chiffons, low-rise skinny denims, psychedelic leopard print bags, or whatever was the hot rage at the time. I'd be carrying those feathery bags with a heavy heart. Why? Cos I had to eliminate something that also appealed to my insatiable sartorial appetite. An incurable fashion slut I was.

Hey, wait a minute. I don't want to drift off into a preachy self-assertion that I have renounced the love of clothes and am killing it with a minimalistic wardrobe of a nursing mom. (Read loose tracks and ill-fitted shirts). I still follow labels, snag the occasional deal on a smashing dress or two, maybe even overlook my wallet size once in a while. Minimalism is the new black they say. Oh, bite me! I enjoy the high of acquiring new things.

But what do you do when you buy a closet full of clothes bought on a whim or a fantastical holiday need and have to mass-purge every time you decide to clean your closet? There goes the weekend Mad Men marathon.

And therein lies the problem. Somewhere along the line, I ended up feeling consumed by the things I so dotingly devoured.

Long story short - I need a fashion consultant. Probably... But I figured that lusting for clothes and gawking at the Mango and FCUK mannequins like a sex offender is not the problem. The problem is when you walk out of that store with a bag of clothes that doesn't represent you or your idea of self-pride and happiness. 

Examples? Here they are:
 1. The Future Bombshell-Me Outfit: "If I get rid of this muffin top, I am going to kill it in this crop shirt. Just you wait."
2. The Imaginary Invite to the Red Carpet Event Gown: "Cos I know people who know people..."
3. Kate Moss Killed it in Head-to-toe Gold: "And so can I."
4. The Hot Trending, Traffic-stopping, Neon-Orange Pants: For God's sake, I know neon colors are in but don't join the fashion brigade just cos it's hot off the ramp. Think woman!

After some uncomfortable donations to my bai (Even she didn't have the stomach for metallic bandage dresses and knotted crop tops), I thought maybe I need to do away with the extraneous. So I decided to apply Graham Hill's principles of life-editing to my wardrobe.

Here's what you can do to make your life simpler and also feel a bit saintly (minus the abstinence of course):

1. Embrace yourself: Not to sound like Deepak Chopra but it's good to take stock of your assets and flaws before you splurge on a really expensive dress. A) If it's not right for you, it won't make you feel good.  B)You will procrastinate wearing it until it's a relic from the distant past.

2. Reality Check: Let's face it. Clothes cannot dictate how exciting your life should be so quit shopping to provide for the dream life you should be living. Are you a social butterfly or a recluse? If you don't see a lot of people frequently or work from home, maybe you can't warrant frequent wardrobe additions. Wean off shopping for a while to see if you can go without "committing the sartorial crime of repeating an outfit to a party"! And it helps if you can be creative and remix your existing outfits.

3. Downsizing: Edit your wardrobe to feature clothes that you absolutely adore and can't do without. If you have to shop, invest in good fits and neutral, earthy colors that can be teamed easily with other items. No I don't mean quit being experimental. Buy clothes with a twist; the little details matter!

4. Hunt it down: How often do we go shopping for something specific and find ourselves struggling to untether from other distractions? If you find yourself getting lured by a cute off-shoulder blouse instead of the black trousers you really need, just walk away from it with your dignity and credit limit intact. Instead, make it a shopping adventure to get what you really want. Take it from me...The chase is fun and the sense of conquest is exhilarating.

5. Sectional Assessment: If you carefully look at your giant elephant of a wardrobe, you will find that you have too much of a particular colour, cut, outfit type etc. Get rid of the boring patterns and save your shopping cravings to invest in something your wardrobe should really have and is perennially chic.

Ultimately, there are a lot of rules to editing your wardrobe fashionably, along with other sections of your life (Books, gadgets, friends even).You can trim it down a little or go for a complete overhaul. The aim should be to not have any retail indulgence to take a larger chunk of your life (and your garbage bin) than it's meant to. Who knows? Living with less can be more fulfilling than you give it credit for. Atleast you won't squander your weekend away appraising your wardrobe. After all, life's wilder than a closet full of shopping adventures...