Master Your Own Style, Eff what Lucky Says

A week or so ago, I was riding the Fung Wah bus back from visiting a bestie in Boston and received an unsolicited compliment from an effusive man to my left.

Bus Guy: Excuse me. Are you a ballet dancer?

As someone with sub-par eye-hand coordination skills, I was both confused and amused by this question. I’d also dribbled a significant amount of hot chocolate all over myself moments earlier; gracefulness is a rare and accidental thing for people who continually trip up stairs. Then I realized what prompted the inquiry.

Me: Nope, I just love legwarmers. I’m totally stuck in the eighties.


Bus Guy: No no, it’s fabulous! I LOVE your style!

My “style” at the time consisted of: Vintage FILA sweater, wifebeater tank, American Apparel denim leggings, Foot Traffic legwarmers, Frye Boots (Mom’s), and fur headpiece (also Mom’s). Slightly eighties, slightly ridiculous, and certainly NOT one of the 10 Iconic Looks discussed in The Lucky Guide to Mastering Any Style.

I read Lucky because it’s the least offensive mag of its ilk – its photo spreads aren’t too artsy-fartsy, its price points don’t call its sanity into question, and its models are only borderline emaciated. Kudos to the editrixes. There is, however, one element of the publication that drives me absolutely bonkers: Lucky’s psychotic obsession with the Frenchies.

See, Lucky doesn’t just give French women props for their tre-chicness. They don long blazers, muss up their hair, wear scarves, take up smoking and try to look as pissed off as possible – idolatry in its most perverted form. The mag doesn’t want to borrow from their Parisian peers; it wants to be them. Nowhere is this clearer than in the Guide to Mastering Any Style.

While the characteristics that define Euro Chic, Posh Eclectic, Arty Slick & Gamine (four of the ten iconic looks discussed) vary, most of the women featured in these categories have two things in common: They don’t have boobs, and they don’t look happy. Flat chests and fierce faces might fly on the other side of the Atlantic, but this is an American mag supposedly intended for American women – the focus on Frenchies can’t help but make us American girls feel that where Fashion’s concerned, we come up short.

Ultimately, my beef isn’t with French fashion or with Lucky’s all-too-clear respect for it. It’s with style guides in general. Shopping and dressing for any one look puts a kink in your creativity and confidence; it’s impossible to feel good about what you’re wearing if you’re trying to look like something or someone other than yourself. The Guide’s intro describes the ten looks as mere guidelines, suggestions, styles that can be mixed, matched and made-your-own. Fair enough, but who really reads that shit? As you work your way through the book, you invariably identify with the style that looks a bit like your own, then experience the urge to re-work your entire wardrobe for the sake of consistency. None of the fashion icons discussed are half California Casual and half Bombshell – it’s their commitment to one look that makes them iconic. Isn’t it?

Fuck if I know, and double fuck if I care. Whatever personal style is, it’s not something a book can dictate. If you want to know which pieces, cuts and styles are right for you, all you gotta do is Bitchslap Your Wardrobe, and assess the YAY pile. Those favorite things you wear over and over again make up an iconic look too. And it’s more important than any listed in The Lucky Guide to Mastering Any Style – it’s utterly and totally yours.