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The Blonde Leading The Blonde

As I was flipping around morning news TV - a fool's errand if ever there was - I tripped over a little informative fact I'd missed, that along with Liz Cheney, Debra Burlingame has become a Board member/spokesmodel for Keep America Safe, the new "let's compain about Obama and foreign policy" group that prefers to call itself concerned with advocating for the "policies that kept us safe for the past 8 years."

There's plenty to debate in those notions, but I was struck by the appearance of Burlingame; in case you've missed her, Burlingame is the sister of one of the pilots of American flight 77, which crashed into the Pehtagon on 9/11. In the aftermath, among a number of other family members of victims, Burlingame moved into a fairly prominent role, speaking out for the concerns of families, and more generally, revealing herself to be a fairly traditional notion of a conservative woman.

It's not surprising that Burlingame's wound up in the Cheney group... but I think it gives a good indication of just what Keep America Safe is about... and what it isn't. And it seems likely that we'll have another semi-serious, pseudo-activist  group to watch and groan by, should we tune into those 24 hour news channel programs where people largely unconnected to things actually happening opine about how their easy to predict viewpoints reflect fresh, deep insight into the issues of today. The combination of Cheney and Burlingame - both so camera and soundbite ready - will likely be yet another exasperating example of what isn't happening in our political discourse, and harder to counteract because the objectionable lines will come from attractive blonde women.

And it's that familiar approach to dressing up conservatism that's got me this morning.

The Fight For Our PJs

When I first saw the kerfuffle developing around John Harwood's report of a White House Advisor saying "they [bloggers] should get out of their PJ's and put on some clothes and get out in the world," I pretty much planned to avoid it. There was a certain "oh no, not again" quality to the whole thing and a "why bother" aspect to responding that seemed paramount.

But a sense of impending deadline, the choice of not posting anything at all yesterday, and a slightly off-kilter sense of humor combined yesterday to push me to toss off what I figured was a cute, idiosyncratic point of taking the comment apart not for the politics, but for the fashion - a defense of pajamas, and the more relaxed life they imply as compared to an uptight, bound up life in the corporate world of suits and "seriousness."

And two unexpected things happened - one is that my dear J in B got on me for being unserious, and the other is that I got angrier as the whole thing didn't go away.

So now - a little pissed and a little more serious - I'd like to make the point again, more vigorously: there's nothing wrong with "blogging in PJs" and we (the blogger nation) need to stop feeling down and defensive when it's brought up. In every sense - from our relaxed lifestyles to our passionate writings to our political impact - we are winning. And we should act like it. Defend the pajamas! Embrace the pajamas! Pajama people rule!

Underneath Your Clothes... There's My Territory

You know, when I worked in retail, I owned a lot of suits. Department stores did - and still do - put forth the notion that men should be wearing "business attire," even as clothing designers and businesses moved to "casual Friday" looks, and more dressed down styles. It was often absurd - there we were, in our good suits, selling jeans to people in track pants.

I like suits. I like the finished look of a jacket, the creativity you can use in picking a shirt and tie, I liked looking polished and "done." But it was also hot, stifling, and kind of confining. Climbing around a storeroom in suit and tie... not fun. Our only casual moments were for nights of inventory, and they were long and tiring... but it was nice to see your coworkers actually be casual, and relaxed.

When I switched to corporate work in advertising, I was thrown into the world of "corporate casual", a nebulous, not always well defined approach to ork dressing that the gay men eventually took hold of and defined, mostly, as a sweater and slacks. Maybe a jacket. Over time, people found ways to make "dress jeans" work - when you pay $249 for a pair of Diesel, that's hardly meant to be used only on weekends. And sure, some people made mistakes - too short skirts, shorts in summer, casual workout wear... but peer pressure, usually, gradually had its effect.

I mention all of this, unnamed White House advisor, because that comment about "take off your PJs, and put on some clothes" is, to be sure, an insult to us who blog and how we do it. But it's also revealing; government work, especially in an institution like the White House, is really the last bastion of full on suited dressing. The world has moved on, corporations have, largely, moved on (the only glaring exception is, say, banking... and that's not the kind of uptight fuck you want to be associated with, now is it?)... and there you are, stuck with being serious. In your suit.

Yes, sometimes I get up in the morning and blog in my jammies. Some days I even post the thoughts that come to me while stark bollocks naked. But you know what? Then I put on some clothes... and go to work. I have the life I want - a life free of suits required for work - and there's a price to be paid: I make half of what I made in department stores, a quarter of what I made in corporate.

But I'm happy. And casual. And I have the ability to write, every day, with passion and enthusiasm, and to turn my energy towards the causes I love and care about most. That commoent about "get out of your PJs", White House Advisor, doesn't bother me with it's "grow up" undertones and childish snark. No, I think it reveals just how annoying it is to have to play at dress-up in those boring DC suits. Take off the suit. Trust me. It's better out here with the PJ people. Underneath your clothes... is a better story.

The Soul That Lives Within

Good Hair is the rare film that lives up to its preview - fast, funny, bracing with barely controlled anger, Good Hair delivers on its promise to go inside the story of black people, their hair, and the complex mix of culture, chemistry, and creativity that is wound up in it.

Chris Rock's basic premise - that he's struggling with what to tell his little girls about "good hair"  (largely a cultural conception that you are doing better, hair-wise, as a black person if your hair more closely resembles that of European white women) - ostensibly drives the documentary, but that may be the film's weakest payoff, since he's no closer to a good answer at the end than he was at the beginning.

But the getting there is fascinating, revelatory, and shows how throwing humor into the documentary mix can add layers to how we look what's unfolding in front of us. Part Paris is Burning, Part Michael Moore, Good Hair, in its best moments, doesn't just climb in, under and around its subject, but shows that the documentary form can still evolve, and can still be the best form for the right subject.

Rock's journey is organized in fairly straightforward manner; he takes apart, piece by piece, each element of what goes into styling black hair - from touring factories that make relaxer (the lye-based chemical that is used to straighten especially coarse hair), to visiting the largest trade show for beauticians in Atlanta, to exploring the elements that go into making "weaves" (hair that is glued or sewn onto the head), Rock pulls together a fascinating tale of money, and conflicted politics in which everyone's choices are problematic... but the whole is so much more than the sum of its parts.

Along the way, Rock gets great, frank observations from a wide swath of African Americans about some of their most intimate aspects, what goes into making their hair the way it is, how they feel about it, and why they do it. As several of the women point out, for a long time, everyone pretended that no one got weaves... and the admissions about weaves, who wears what and what they entail, is by itself worth the price of admission.

It might not, however, be worth the price of a weave; Rock makes a compelling case - aided, brilliantly, by Al Sharpton, of all people - that the biggest problem here is economic: both the exploitation of women in India who essentailly give their hair away, and the black women who scramble to find the resources to cover hair care bills that run into the thousands... though, that said, my $300 Asian perm suddenly seems comparatively cheap.

Rock ends with an American Idol style hair show contest at the Atlanta beauty trade show, a much coveted prize among stylists. The value of the contest footage is debatable, but it does underline Rock's overall observations of the complexities in this: you've never seen anything quite so strange, quite so beautiful... and so thoroughly artificial. And the question that lingers is... really, is any of this worth it?

The answer isn't obvious; as I left the theater, I felt more self conscious than usual about my long, straight hair, that moves with the kind of ease many of us crave. The sociocultural observations Rock raises - and never fully resolves - are not ever easily answered. But it is, really, long past the time we asked what we're doing, why we're doing it, and whether or not it's worth it. That Good Hair manages such a challenging notion, and remains thoroughly respectful of its subject, and utterly enjoyable, is a rare quality in any film, never mind in documentaries. As a cultural object, it insists on being seen; as a film, I highly recommend it.

To See A Man About A (Hot, Sexy) Horse

Spent yesterday afternoon on a last ditch effort to solve a pooter problem - lesson for all, as if you need it: make backups... and backup your backups - and generally, failed. Lest you want to provide sympathy for my unfortunate turn of events... it's not that big a deal. Really.

Still, it's been a learning experience; I've learned more in the past few weeks about portable hard drive technology than I ever intended to. I now know about FAT32, the click of death, how to mount a hard drive, and more about the inner workings of hard drive hardware than I ever planned to know. And it's all been sort of interesting, since I like to be generally knowledgable about everything... and one of the frustrating aspects of these newfangled computers is... as lay people, we often know very little, and rely on experts to explain things to us. Which - in my slightly know-it-all way- I can't stand.

I was also reminded, yet again, about how much of IT is a youth oriented profession; that was especially true of the afternoon I spent at Tekserve, the Apple only computer store and service center in Manhattan, where everyone - from customers to technicians - range in age from about 20 to 50. Apple's success, in particular, I think, comes from appealing to a younthful, tech savvy market. But often, Apple users don't bother to know a lot of details; it works so well, the problems can be so rare... it's bewildering when they crop up. And then you find yourself relying on some 22 year old, usually cute, know-all guru to help you solve your, probably obvious to him or her, problem. Whether at Tekserve or at the Apple Store Genius Bar... I've rarely seen a tech over 30, usually someone too hip to live in your world, cute in that modern, geeky way (boys, girls, black white... you name it).

I know we'll have reached a new moment in our technological lives - and probably in our American economy - when computer work, especially for Apple, is no longer a young, sexy field of endeavor (kind of the way some have taken to using the "hot waiter" scale to determine when the economic downturn ends - when goodlooking people can go back to supporting themselves fully as models and actors), we'll know the recession is over. Until then, may I suggest the service area at Tekserve may be the most subversive pickup joint in New York; just nod your head sympathetically and learn a few buzz words... like mounting a hard drive.

And whatever you do... don't recommend Western Digital. :)

A Woman, Alone

It's surprising, really, that Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel's life has never quite made it successfully into film (or theater, for that matter). A fascinating woman with a fascinating life, hers is probably the most public, most obvious example of the changes in women's lives over the twentieth century - both because she lived her own with such
ferocious independence, and because she then changed the world for a lot of other women, through her pioneering efforts to change women's fashion.

Coco Before Chanel (Coco Avant Chanel) is the latest attempt, infinitely more satisfying than much of what's come before... and yet, still, only hinting at a lot of the possibilities. A lush, beautiful film, beautifully realized, Coco Before Chanel may be a great film about fashion, indeed one of the best yet... and still manages to leave a sense of not being entirely complete.

Abandoned by her father to an orphanage in the French countryside, Chanel grew up with her sister, learning the kinds of things girls learned in orphanages run by nuns - how to sew, and serve - until eventually the two girls struck out on their own as aspiring cabaret singers. With limited options for them financially and personally, both women  move to find older men who will "take care" of them - i.e. as courtesans or mistresses - and both succeed. Coco's sister winds up the mistress of a Baron, and Coco gets involved with Etienne Balsan, a wealthy horse breeder and businessman.

The film presents Chanel as very much, from the beginning, her own woman. She does what she has to do to survive, but she doesn't feel bound, especially, to either convention, or the expectations of others (how very French!). It helps that Chanel is played by Audrey Tautou, luminously beautiful, as always, and capable of conveying volumes in a glance. As Chanel, she keeps herself slightly set apart from the world around her, and we see how Coco takes in what she sees - what people wear, what fanric does, how people react. And we see, gradually, how Chanel's personal style eveolves, and how it brings her to making her own style of clothes for others.

Eventually, Chanel meets Arthur "Boy" Capel, the young scion of a family of British merchants (who speaks impeccable French and thanks to Alessandro Nivola, is drop dead handsome), and falls in love.  But any dreams she has of finding respectability in marriage are thwarted, again, as Capel marries someone considered more suitable by his family, while continuing his relationship with Chanel.

It's all very sophisticated and French and stylish... and it bears a close relationship to what actually happened... if, for instance, you completely ignore Chanel's relationship with the Duke of Westminster or her friendship with Misia Sert. Obviously intended to simplify and straighten out a fairly complicated, often messy life, Coco Before Chanel does better than most to suggest the evolution of style and the development of a free spirit's life... but by cleaning up the details, eliding past major characters and oversimplifying (admittedly more gracefully than others) the development of ideas like Chanel's exposure to fine tailoring, the little black dress or the use of jersey, the film does itself, and the viewer, a disservice. It's Chanel reimagined for the small, independent arty film... and that's fine for what it is... but Chanel's life was, in many ways, bigger than that. It was opera, it was theater, it was big budget cinema. Shrinking it... tends to shrink the possibilities.

Director and cowriter Anne Fontaine clearly sees the feminist elements at work here, and more than previous attempts, Coco Before Chanel notes the pioneering role Chanel had in redefining the possibilities in women's lives, especially the possibility that a woman can lead her own, independent life, without marriage or other traditional notions, as a man would. And Fontaine does better than many French directors at balancing the need to keep the story coherent while showing considerable artistry. The film soars, in part, because it doesn't succumb to the American need to hammer home every development with an exclamation point... it trusts our ability as an audience to figure some things out.

Though the ending can seem tacked on, I think it was also vital - seeing Chanel, as she became, giving one of her later fashion shows ensconced, as she was, on the stairs of her shop in the Rue Cambon, makes clear what the early going, by itself, cannot: that you couldn't do what she did, without the life she led. I believe that's true, and I wish, still, someone would take on Chanel as she deserves to be taken on - courageously, ruthlessly, demandingly... and big. A lovely, gentle bonbon of a film, Coco Before Chanel hints at the possibilities... but only hints. Think bigger.

The Day I Want To Cut Off All My Hair

So yesterday was rough.

When nothing - from my finances ("destitute" applies) to basic chores (our lawn is frightening, like the place is abandoned) - seems to go right or get done... I get myself further and further down til everything seems futile.

And then, naturally, I decide I hate my hair and I should cut it all off... also, I am destitute. And cutting off my hair is cheaper than keeping it. Plus feeling fat and bald and awful will be easier when I am fat and bald.

I've been so very up and down lately... and I don't really know why. It's not like things change enomously one day to the next... but one day the world looks  all right and I can make it, after all.... and the next day, it's all awful and hellish and I hate everyone and everything.

Last night, fortunately, I ran into an old friend, who has far more to bitch about than I probably ever will... and he reminded me that neither his problems, nor mine, or the end of the world. And when he suggested 27 Dresses, The Women and Auntie Mame as a way to cope with my bridesmaid dilemmas... well, I knew why this guy has always managed to brighten my world (and that's not even mentioning the awesome chance I got, thanks to him, to see Bette Midler at Radio City. In the 8th row).

And you know what he said when he saw me - hairdresser that he is?

"Wow, your hair is amazing. It's really grown out!"

Okay... I guess I'll keep it. :)

It's A Lipstick Jungle Out There, Baby

Aside from The September Issue, I haven't been doing a lot of fashion writing... which is partly a reflection of how life has changed for me generally, and how not about the fashion and shopping world I can be these days.

That reality came home to me tonight when I joined Jennifer, spur of the moment and mostly by accident, and wound up in the middle of Fashion's Night Out.... when I played my role as The Gay (a/k/a that friend to straight women who helps with fashion, makeup and other lifestyle shopping).

Conceived as an "event night to spur shopping around the city," Fashion's Night Out was meant to lend some glitz and glamour to shopping that's been kind of missing, kick off New York Fashion Week, and hopefully reinvigorate the fall selling season, which is showing no more signs of a recovery than anything else this year (which is to say... you can find people shopping, just not many of them).

Jennifer and I were mainly concerned with solving her current dilemma - the arrival of Chanel's new Noir line of lipstick, three variations of the new vogue for black lipstick with red, brown and purple undertones. And Jennifer, feeling frustrated that she couldn't find one she liked, wanted to get a second opinion... and for the moment, mine would have to do.

It was quite fun, and I have to admit, they are three hard to wear shades - I'm not sure anyone can carry off the brown, the red looks muddy, and we tried the purple and the result was... well, intense. After some discussion - if you're ever in New York and go to Saks, girls, ask for Simone at Chanel - we tried adding some glossy lip laquer on top, and that seemed to work (Official recipe: Hysteria lipstick, Dragon lip lacquer, and Vamp pencil for a good line). But Jennifer balked at multiple products and such a complicated routine... and I can't say I blamed her, though it wore well and looked fierce.

Looking fierce, really, was the order of the evening; lots of people traipsed around the stores as if it were a night at the club, and in many ways it was. The music was loud, free booze samples were available for the (very) patient, and people meandered everywhere... but there wasn't much real shopping that we saw, and pretty much every salesperson we saw, and knew, called the night basically a bust. "If we were selling hot dogs and funnel cake, we'd be doing well" one high end accessories seller said to us.

As a people watching event, the night was fun enough, kind of absurd, kind of surreal, never dull. Barneys, especially on the main level, was quite vivid. But it was also tiring, and in the end I felt for the workers more than the supposed customers: there's so much that's just not working right now in retail (and I mean the double entendre of employment, too), and a sense of desperation to the night that no one could shake.

Jennifer and I wondered if this will be repeated - if it is, I think we'll try harder to chase down Anna Wintour - and I have my doubts; Fashion Week doesn't need it, the retailers won't probably want it, and the fashion types who showed up can easily be convinced to come to other, more productive events (ones where store and label executives don't stand around, nervously fidgeting and looking uncomfortable).

Mostly I was reminded tonight, often pleasantly, of a life I used to lead, and have largely left behind. I miss it, sort of... but a little of this sort of energy goes a long, long, way. I'd rather save the fancy outfit - and the three step lipstick application - for a fun night with good friends, and probably something low key, if I had my drothers. It's a lipstick jungle out there in fashionland... and baby, we're all just brightly colored animals, if you know what I mean.

Act Natural

This past week saw a flurry of articles and blog posts about black women and hair and the question of "natural" - it precedes the arrival, this fall, of what looks to be a fascinating new documentary from Chris Rock called Good Hair.

I've written about my hair before, and I fall, pretty squarely, in the nebulous middle ground of the art and politics of hair and people of color. I have had a weave, and braids, and all sorts of "natural" hair - colored, processed, and currently thermal permed (a/k/a The Asian). Yes, I have even worn my hair in pretty much the way it came - naturally dark and curly. I like to change my look, just because that's who I am. But I'm also honest enough to admit that, like others, my image of "good hair" is white and European - long, straight, flip it out hair.

As I've also said, I know from experience the gendered expectations of hair - when my hair is short, and appropriately boyish, I get approving reactions that I do not when my hair is longer, more adventurous, more overtly presented closer to the way women wear hair. I can even gauge that reaction, lately, when I choose to go with or without a ponytail - long haired men who pull it back also fit more of a gendered expectation than those who do not.

But I talk less about the racial experience of hair. That when I wear my hair in a straight, combed out style I get better reactions than when it is long, loose and curly. I get treated differently, I get seen differently - people do not immediately see me as black with my current long straight hair; I must be South Asian, or Native American, or possibly Indigenous South American/Hispanic.

Fashion Kills

One thing you can say about movie critics: there's not much intersection between people who've liked sitting in the dark for hours at a time since childhood and a compelling interest in fashion. Movies may have a long history intertwined with the history of fashion... but film criticism doesn't.

It wasn't surprising to me, then, that many reviewers took The September Issue as an opportunity to review not the documentary about Vogue and its creative process, but instead reviewed the personalities in play; fashion's full of over-the-top, and it's all on display in this film, whether its Andre Leon Talley (who has the best role he'll ever get - himself), or Grace Coddington, or of course, Anna Wintour, the magazine's editor.

I've written about Anna before; as someone who follows fashion with some regular devotion, like everyone else, I know Anna rules our universe. What I'd never seen - nor had many - was just how she does it. And yes, it's clear she can be, at times, remarkably chilly and unapproachable.

Yet, at the same time, what really makes The September Issue fascinating is how Wintour serves as the calm, expert leader shepherding a complex, multifaceted process. More than anything, what reviewing Anna rather than the film illustrates is what professional women put up with: here's a woman who is good at her job, possibly the best at what she does (possibly in ever)... and somehow, because she's not "nice," it doesn't matter. The September Issue is a revelation about magazines, about fashion... and most of all, about what it takes to be the best.