Glossed Over

Plum Sykes on the picket line • The WGA writer’s strike isn’t just a tough on writers and crew members whose projects have been discontinued.  No, it’s a definite hardship for fashion’s elite, too.  Witness the dilemma Plum Sykes (who’s adapting her novel into a screenplay and is therefore on strike) faces as she prepares to protest on the streets of New York:  “...what on earth does a Voguette wear to picket?”  Yes, she’s serious. 

In this piece for New York magazine, Sykes then proceeds to seek advice from an unnamed “society hostess” and fellow Vogue writer William Norwich, who are probably two of the least helpful people on Earth when it comes to unions, picket lines, and most any other topic.  Her ruminations on the subject are the most self-absorbed take on the writer’s strike yet—and, quite possibly, ever.  If only screenwriting weren’t the sole kind of work she’s forbidden right now.  [via Fashionista]

Sykes Mystery from September Vogue Solved: The True Meaning of "Harrogatha"

Well, at least one of the things we’ve wondered about Plum Sykes has been put to rest!  Back in September, we questioned the existence of the word “harrogatha,” as used in Sykes’ September Vogue article about stylist Ashley Javier, “At the Parlor.”

Also, exclusive hairstylists apparently speak their own language:

When he arrived on Twenty-eighth Street, “This place was harrogatha!  Harrogatha!”

We do not know this word.  Anyone?

We wrote that, and we promptly forgot about it.

Our husband (er, my husband), on the other hand, was truly intrigued by this strange word.  Last week, without any prompting (we swear!),  he sought an answer on Ask Metafilter and then wrote to Vogue, while intrepid MeFite Veronica Sawyer (whom we want to be friends with based on that handle alone) actually called Ashley Javier.

So here’s the deal on Harrogatha, courtesy of our new hero Ms. Sawyer:

When Ashley moved to NYC 15 years ago, he befriended Paul Rutherford of Frankie Goes to Hollywood fame.

So harrogatha (pronounced huh-RAH-gutha) is a term that he picked up from Paul and it means that something is so horrible, so horrendous, so bad that it’s practically infectious.

Ashley’s not sure where Paul picked it up, or if he made it up.

And Vogue representative Phyllis Rifield admits the word is made up:

He has lots of made-up words to express his extraordinary point of view on life.

To summarize: A word of unclear origin was used in an interview.  Sykes wrote it into her story.  And then, not a single editor at Vogue bothered to question its meaning…or, you know, explain a completely fake word to us lowly readers, many of whom have never even been invited for a Javier haircut!  That’s an “extraordinary point of view” indeed!

More Vogue: Grooming Habits of the Grossly Overprivileged

No, no, we’re not liveblogging the rest of Vogue.  (Sure, we’re masochistic for even trying, but we aren’t gluttonous enough to go at it again.) Anyway, the September issue is practically bursting with content from Plum Sykes, whom we love to loathe—three whole articles!  We’d only read her personal essay about her life-changing endeavor to wear brooches.  (Which we bemoaned at length in our live blog, mostly due to, well, its length.)

But there are two more pieces penned by Ms. Sykes in this issue!  First up, there’s a breathless account of a Manhattan hair atelier, “At the Parlor.”  The premise: stylist Ashley Javier caters to the wealthy and famous by cutting their hair in his penthouse apartment…on an invitation-only basis.   Oh, what a tempting glimpse at the services available to those with lots of money and nothing to spend it on but their tresses!  Still, those joining the exclusive ranks of Javier’s clientele may find his services rather challenging.  See, his clients must first wind their way through—gasp!—an unfashionable part of Manhattan!

There is a scruffy gray commercial building on the corner of Twenty-eighth Street and Fifth Avenue.  Devoid of glamour, it is situated on the kind of grim Manhattan intersection that can provoke clinical depression in even the cheeriest girl.

Well, we’re depressed by the prospect of a hair salon to which clients must be invited, but we don’t think that’s what Plum’s talking about.  And speaking of a downer:

Cuddling the Yorkie, [Javier] says the dog was “a gift from Jemma Kidd and Arthur Mornington.  He’s called Tennessee, but his middle name is Morningkidd.”

Seriously?  People give their dogs middle names?  Also, exclusive hairstylists apparently speak their own language:

When he arrived on Twenty-eighth Street, “This place was harrogatha!  Harrogatha!”

We do not know this word.  Anyone?

For good measure, one of our favorite quotes from the article!

He started decorating in earnest, and “my taste fell together.  If you want to get close to yourself, forget therapy.  Decorate.”

Even better is this gem from Chloe Sevigny:

“I need a snip.  I’m going out for dinner with Bill Paxton.”  Ashley explains that he only “dusts” Chloe’s hair.  “I don’t trust L.A. hairdressers,” she adds…

Must be difficult, not being able to find one single person to cut your hair in a metropolitan area of thirteen million people.  Who knew the Los Angeles area faced such a dire shortage of appropriately trained stylists?  Someone launch a charity event, quickly!

Finally, as Plum wraps up her stay at the penthouse/salon:

Ashley, still bubbling with infectious energy, exclaims, “Adios, Sugarpuss!’…

If only we could bid farewell to Sugarpuss Sykes!  Alas, we’ll be flipping to her third contribution to the September issue, “Village People,” to discover which part of the lives of the over-privileged she’ll illuminate for us next.  We have so much to learn!

Vogue Momentarily Manages Normalcy, Politeness

Vogue normally brings us up close and personal to people with whom, given the choice, we’d rather not share the planet (William Norwich, for instance, though we acknowledge that his slice of Earth and ours are literally and figuratively quite removed). Happily, August’s issue of Vogue bucked the trend and introduced us to two people whose sensibilities are a bit closer to our own:

First, we were pleasantly surprised (and our sentiments validated) by Dana Ridell’s letter in “Talking Back: Letters from Readers”:

I feel compelled to ask why you insist on publishing the drivel turned out by the irritatingly pretentious Plum Sykes…It brings down the whole tone of Vogue.

We couldn’t agree more, Dana. Now can someone please write a letter about André Leon Talley?

After that small triumph, we were sure things would take a turn for the worse, especially when we arrived at the typically ludicrous “Norwich Notes.” But in this month’s edition, “Fashionably Late?,” actress Chloe Sevigny gained several points of our esteem with this bold statement:

“I pride myself on my punctuality,” Chloe said…“I don’t want to make people wait. That’s obnoxious.”

Her comments were in stark contrast to the other luminaries in the article—including Vera Wang (who was late for the White House!), Cynthia Rowley, Shalom Harlow, and Gemma Ward—who freely admit to compulsive tardiness, and we hope her comments were directed squarely at those blasé latecomers. Catty comments in the hallowed pages of Vogue?  Delicious. 

Also, we’re fervently hoping punctuality will become cool.

Alas, our surprisingly pleasant trip through the pages of Vogue screeched to a halt when we happened upon this silliness uttered by jewelry designer Temple St. Clair:

…Sometimes my customers in their 40s and 50s will complain about how their hands look. I tell them, “Wear a big ring and nobody’s going to be looking at your hands!”

Unless Temple is advising her clients to wear their rings on a chain around their wrinkly necks like they wore their boyfriends’ class rings, a flashy bauble will almost certainly draw attention to their hands.  That is the point, isn’t it?

Still, it’s better we came crashing back to earth so swiftly. This issue also contains an article canonizing the Olsen twins because—gasp!  shock!—they don’t use a stylist to pick out their clothes, which, given their heavily layered looks of the past, is not at all surprising.  We’re already certain we won’t enjoy that profile at all.

Glossed Over v. Plum Sykes, Continued

In the October issue of Vogue, Plum lays bare the details of her nuptials, including tidbits from her personal journal.  First, she shares a concern about her Alexander McQueen dress.  (And when we say Alexander McQueen, we don’t mean the brand.  We mean him.)

It was going to be $15,000 for the embroidery alone.  I’m a writer, not an Arab princess. 

We love that she refers to herself as a writer IN HER OWN JOURNAL, like she has to remind--or convince--herself that writing is her profession.  (On second thought, we often have to remind ourselves that she is a writer, so perhaps this isn’t so much of a stretch.)

But we’re baffled by her complaint about the expense.  At what point did she think that having a dress created expressly for her by a top fashion designer would be inexpensive or even affordable?   If she was so worried about the expense, why not hit up Bergdorf or Saks or Bloomingdale’s?  As writer Marina Rust dutifully lists Plum’s honeymoon wardrobe--featuring pieces from Sonia Rykiel, Alice Temperley, and Zac Posen--it becomes clear that this woman, through whatever means, can afford pricy clothing.  Her complaints about the cost of the wedding gown--the one item for which most women will gladly splurge--come off almost petty.

Then Plum refers to a hair clip she plans to wear as “sort of weird and edgy, but so am I.”  We don’t know Plum personally, of course, but we’d wager serious cash--say, $15,000--that Plum isn’t even the edgiest woman in her apartment building.

Finally, Plum offers this gem about marriage:

Wardrobe is entertainment in a marriage.  ‘Darling, do you love this outfit?’  ‘Yes, darling, I do.’  It cheers him up, and he’s not cheery.

Well.  We knew her fiancé was "very keen" about her honeymoon set, but this takes his appreciation of her clothing to a whole new level.  Is any man so delighted by his wife’s wardrobe as this man seems to be?  Really.  That’s a serious question.  Most men are largely indifferent to women’s clothes, so Plum’s intended seems a bit, um, unusual.  Maybe he’s lying about his delight in her sartorial splendor.  Perhaps she’s exaggerating.  In any case, if constant wardrobe changes are going to constitute the “entertainment” in their marriage, we have only one more thing to say:

Good luck, Mr. Plum Sykes.  We’re quite certain you’re going to need it.

A Fruit by Any Other Name

We’re not entirely sure why, but we don’t like Plum Sykes.  We don't know if it’s her name--that can’t be real, can it?  Maybe it was the report that she has her own oversized mail bin at Vogue headquarters.  Perhaps it’s just that she lives in a world we don’t understand.

Whatever the case, our dislike for her was solidified by "The $900 Bra" in the July 2005 issue of Vogue, wherein she goes shopping for suitable wedding-night lingerie. 

In Paris.

Yes, this is definitely not our world.

At one point, after shopping all day for a set--Madame Cadolle, the proprietor of a shop on the Rue Cambon, insists she needs a nightgown with matching robe for "the first night!"--Sykes discusses the matter with her fiancé over dinner. 

"What do you think, darling, about me appearing on our wedding night wearing a set?" I ask him.

He says he does not know what a set is.  I explain.

"Obviously I am very keen," he says.  Then we talk about something else.

It’s difficult to imagine having sex at all--let alone the "million times" she claims--with a man who says things like "Obviously I am very keen," but we digress.

Our case was bolstered when we saw this article from USA Today, in which Sykes opines, "It's not very cool to be wearing $10,000 every time you leave the house.  The chicest woman is the woman who looks really sexy in a pair of jeans and a T-shirt."  Or, apparently, $1000 of French lingerie.

Sykes is a phony!  Or a liar.  Maybe she was just pandering to Bergdorf Blondes' target audience.  We don't know which is worse.

We're not sure what your game is, Sykes.  But we just can't buy it.  No pun intended.