Fashion Week is once again underway in New York, and designers—never ones to resist a nostalgic misfire—are deep in their 1970s phase. The Spring 2005 collections are full of synthetic slink: fabrics that cling, colors that offend, silhouettes best left to Studio 54.
I’m not particularly fashionable. But I do have a sixth sense for when something looks bad. And in the age of mass-market fashion trickle-down, being able to identify a ridiculous trend is its own form of survival. I may not be stylish, but at least I’m not a lemming in a polyester jumpsuit.
Boston isn’t a fashion capital, but you’d be surprised how many women here try to translate Vogue spreads into sidewalk looks—often mid-cardio on a treadmill while flipping through Glamour. And with deepest respect to everyone just trying to get dressed in the morning: some trends need to be buried. Deeply. Preferably with a stake.
1. Pink.
Pink has finally trickled down to the demographic least suited for it: the old, the overworked, and the overstimulated. There is exactly one group who can reliably wear pink: girls between the ages of one and eight, and blondes. The rest of you are gambling. The other day on the T, I saw a Hispanic woman—slim, well-groomed, clearly stylish—wearing a candy-pink sateen pleated A-line skirt. She was probably in her late forties. It was… jarring.
2. The Scarf Belt.
Every time I see someone thread a scarf through her belt loops, I flash to a QVC presenter raving about “versatility!” and “feminine flair!” Like she’s going to tie it around her waist and her handbag and maybe later her Yorkie. A scarf belt is not an accessory—it’s a warning sign. I see it and wonder how often she re-ties it after washing her hands in a public bathroom.
3. Butt Words.
There is perhaps no fashion trend more revealing—psychologically, symbolically—than Greek letters stitched across the rear of a pair of sweatpants. I don’t need to explain it. The joke writes itself. Or rather, embroiders itself in varsity font across someone’s backside.
4. Dysfunctional Shoes.
Boston is a walking city. Boston is also a minefield of cracked sidewalks, cobblestones, and crosswalks that dare you to make it in one piece. So when I see someone navigating downtown in spike heels with no ankle support, I feel a complicated mix of pity, rage, and orthopedic concern. If you’re being chauffeured to a party, fine—strut like you mean it. But if you’re actually walking more than 50 feet, know this: unless you are a gazelle in a past life, you look one misstep away from a slow-motion sidewalk collapse.
5. Flip Flops.
Wikipedia calls flip-flops “a kind of flat, backless sandal… held on the foot by a V-shaped strap.” Which sounds fine—if you’re at the beach. Not, say, on a subway platform in a city with 400-year-old rat burrows and questionable liquid seeping from street corners. Flip flops are for sand. Not sewage.
