OBSESSION: Psychic Trends Network

In these uncertain financial times, you’re less likely to call your broker and more likely to call Ghostbusters: enter author and psychic Tori Hartman. The Los Angeles native recently talked to The New York Times about the financial future.

“People are sensing that the traditional avenues have not worked,” Hartman told the paper, “all of a sudden this so-called security isn’t there anymore. They come to a psychic for a different perspective.” So we decided to ring up Hartman for fashion perspectives for spring. Why not? If Isaac Mizrahi can plan his collection via Ouija Board, we can call our psychic friend for spring tips.

The Look: Camelot
“The 1960s will be very important in what we're wearing,” Hartman predicts, “especially the early ‘60s. Take a look at the turtleneck (Blue Jackie sweater, $15 at L.L. Bean), tights and dresses that Twiggy wore. We hope to revisit Camelot, a place and time of idyllic happiness and possibility.”
Psychic Inspiration: The Obamas



The Look: Color
“As we're all focusing on the environment,” channels Hartman, “color inspired by nature will become important. Look for two trends to break through in 2009: Nature-inspired colors (earthy Isaac Mizrahi skirt, $31.49 at Target) and bold, geometric, mismatched "Peter Max" colors for the nonconformist.
Psychic Inspiration: Law of Attraction


The Look: Statement
“Crystals (urchin ring, $49 at Banana Republic) will become a girls best friend,” Hartman promises, “Om pendants and prayer malas will be worn to connect us rather than separate. “Bling” is over as jewelry becomes about who we are committed to becoming as opposed to who we've been. Statement jewelry includes 12-step recovery bracelets, awareness wristbands and gemstones known for energetic healing.
Psychic Inspiration: The "Green" Eco Movement

BITE: Tipping the Velvet (Mafia)

You know you’ve heard it: if the owner of a salon cuts your hair, you don’t have to tip. It’s one of those beauty myths that I always just accepted as fact. When I asked Hairanoia salon owner Michael DeSalvo about it, he got his Sicilian on. “That’s fucking bullshit,” the goateed stylist yelled, “Who ever thought that up had their head up their ass.” Salty, Michael. Props.

Turns out potty-mouthed DeSalvo is on the money when it comes to tipping. “If the salon owner is also your stylist,” beauty expert Julyne Derrick writes, “then yes, you should tip him the same as your would a stylist who is not an owner. In the old days one didn't tip the stylist if he owned the salon, but times have changed and it's now protocol to tip.”

Real Simple limits tipping salon owners to “major metropolitan areas,” but DeSalvo is unswayed. “Think about it,” he begins, “I have one client who tips me and one who doesn’t. They both want to come in and there’s only one opening. Who do you think is going to get it? And another thing, it’s always the people that roll up in Mercedes that pull this shit. It’s very old school.”

“Listen,” DeSalvo continues, “I have one client that was blacklisted by McCarthy. That’s how old he is. He comes in and he tells me what he’s going to pay. He says, ‘Listen kid, I’ll give ya $12.’ And I let him. I even do a sliding scale for people who can’t afford a haircut.” It should be noted that at $17 a clip, Hairanoia is quite reasonable.”

“When you get me,” DeSalvo beams, “you get all of me. I walk you in the door, shampoo your hair and cut it. That’s not worth a couple of extra bucks?”

A-LIST: Carmex Electra

Come on, don’t act like you never heard it. Carmex, that Cadillac of lips balms, has a frenzy of rumor and support sites swirling on the web. Personally, we love the stuff, but like spider eggs in Bubble Yum, we think someone has been telling your children very bad things about a very good lip balm.

You know you’ve heard it. “Carmex contains ground fiberglass that necessitates repeated applications” or “Carmex is made with salicylic acid, which chafes the lips, making you crave more.” Comedian Paula Poundstone even jokes about a secret wing at Betty Ford for users with a Carmex addiction “begging for just one little dip of their finger into the pot.”

So let’s take a look at what’s out there in terms of support or myth-busting around this venerable, 58-year-old product:

Dictator Princess: Prinny hysterically describes Carmex as “Vaseline with a tingle” and details her Carmex addiction low: combing Paris for “the little yellow pot.”

Lip Balm Anonymous: This is the Nancy Reagan of Carmex addiction sites describes the amber goo as packing “a rush that rivals crack cocaine when you first apply it.”

Salon Selectives: A well-researched piece by Mary Roach that details addicts who go by first name, last initial only. Lisa M. applies an average of 108 times a day, poor thing.

mycarmex.com: This is the mothership: the official Carmex website. In addition to addiction issues, it addresses how to remove Carmex stains from your clothing. Messy!

Winehouse Is Da Balm: links Amy Winehouse to Carmex. This How-To wiki suggests slathering balm all over your face. “Carmex is the best.” Mmm-hum, we knew it.

HOW TO: Find a Brand-New Scissor Sister

“I’m sorry,” Michael DeSalvo says into the phone, “I’m booked for the night.” He looks up from the call and winks at me. Me likey, but Candy Bushnell’s advice echoes in my head: wait until you’re back home before you visit the salon. How do you think cornrows happen?














But I couldn’t wait any longer. I’d moved to Syracuse and was beginning to resemble a Pomeranian, so I had to go about finding a new stylist, which brought me to Hairanoia at 101 Green Street and Hawley Avenue.

I’d heard about the salon’s owner, “the wheel of Hawley Green,” but when I called to book my appointment, he answered the phone himself. I scheduled, then inquired if the owner could cut my hair. “I am the owner,” he replied unassumingly

At the handsome, double-height salon, DeSalvo offers hot cider and gets to work on an amazing tea tree shampoo and head massage. Someone who obviously didn’t get the “booked for the night” memo prattles on. If her talking means the magic fingers don’t stop, she can babble all night.

Soon I’m in the cutting chair and he asks me what we're doing. I look him dead in the eye and say, “Do whatever you want with me, Michael.” It’s the leap of faith one needs to take when finding a new salon, but DeSalvo, who insists it’s all about chemistry, has some more tips for finding a new man in your life:

Hang out: sit around and read some magazines in the salon you’re thinking about using. And if the magazines are more than five years old, press.

Cruise: is your hairdresser hot? Would you sleep with him? Don’t play the old stylist or ex-con game. If your hairdresser has tattoos, that’s a good thing.

Cheat: Don’t be afraid to step out on your man. DeSalvo encourages his clients to try someone new. They appreciate him more when they come back.

And not to get all Terminator, but I’ll be back.

REVIEW: Get On The Bus

What does the underground world of drag balls -- an LGBT subculture in which primarily queer youth get up in either makeshift or stolen couture and walk the runway, garnering trophies for their houses -- have to do with Syracuse? Ask the three "homo-thugs" on the Centro bus. They declared themselves as such, snapping fingers over their heads, snapping the illusion that they were gang-bangers. Ride that bus to Manhattan, walk a "realness" category at a ball, or just take in the new play Wig Out!

Terrell Alvin McCraney's new drama plays at New York’s Vineyard Theater. This piece owes an extreme debt to Jennie Livingston’s 1990 documentary Paris Is Burning and also takes as its master shot the drag ball competition, dressing it in a fairy tale so labored one spends the evening waiting for a queen to throw down her weave from the catwalks now lining the Vineyard space.

There are grace notes of brilliance, mostly courtesy director Tina Landau, who utilizes the radically reconfigured theater beautifully. Everything builds toward a second act drag ball in which jungle beats pump and the characters prance to the end of scenic designer James Schuette’s extreme thrust stage that literally intersects the audience.

The problem is that intersection never really merges. Where actual pier queen lingo still zings — witness Livingston’s drag ball judge tell two battling contestants: “If you touch, I’m chopping you” — McCraney’s language is so florid it sounds straight out of Lord of the Rings.

Add to that a heavy-handed “homage” to Livingston’s film that seats the aging mother of the House of Light before her lit makeup mirror ala Paris is Burning’s legend Dorian Corey, a Greek chorus of three Dreamgirls and a stagey “face” demo in which “unpainted” queens wipe their visage with a white handkerchief and this house of blusher sinks.

The cast is uniformly excellent. Daniel T. Booth’s Playbill bio is slim, but his outsized alter ego Sweetie makes an entrance. And nearly mops — pier lingo for stealing: remarkably absent from the universe of Wig Out! — the show as Serena, mother of the House of Di’Abolique. His chinoiserie lip-synch to Jefferson Airplane’s “White Rabbit” alone makes this play worth the trip.

BITE: Paris Is Burning's My New BFF

In 1990, documentary filmmaker Jennie Livingston released her seven-year labor of love Paris Is Burning. The film chronicled disenfranchised members of a New York subculture composed of various houses, or loose familial amalgams of young queens miles away from Fashion Avenue, yet close enough to hold a mirror up to its gorgeous excess.

These queens walked the runway in elaborate drag balls where members of competing houses would imitate everything from high fashion models to urban roughnecks in the category “banjee realness,” or as its explained in the film, “looking like the kind of girl that walks her little brother to school.”

Livingston’s film grossed almost four million dollars domestically, gangbusters for a nonfiction feature. Three months before Livingston’s Toronto International Film Festival debut, Madonna’s song “Vogue” hit the top of Billboard’s Hot 100. That song, and accompanying David Fincher video, provided a slick backdrop for the intricate gesture and tableaux freeze movement vocabulary approximating the titular fashion magazine come to life.

Over the course of one summer, two white women loosed the perfect storm, unleashing queer black culture on an unsuspecting pop landscape. Over the next fifteen years, New York’s landscape changed so dramatically that drag queens and hustlers fronting pier culture — so named for the abandoned West Village piers on which houses would gather to “do shows” — were replaced by manicured Rollerblade paths trafficked by aerodynamic, three-wheel, jog strollers. Paris had burned.

Cut to 2005. Livingston’s film has its long-awaited DVD release ($23.99) and a full-on Vogue resurgence fires up in London, bringing piers queens back like phoenix from the flame. Maybe. There are still aerodynamic, three-wheel, jog strollers, but some of the children are vogueing.

REVIEW: Gothic Girl

“Death, destruction, and decay.” Not exactly words associated with fashion, unless one happens to be standing in line for a Marc Jacobs show. But this morbid platter is exactly what curator Valerie Steele promises in the exhibition catalog for “Gothic: Dark Glamour.”

“This is the first museum exhibition devoted to the gothic style in fashion,” Steele writes. It presents more than 75 sinister looks from designers as diverse as Anne Demeulemeester and Yohji Yamamoto.

She displays them astutely over tableaux ranging from ruined castle to mad scientist’s lab in the unassuming, but state-of-the-art basement museum at the Fashion Institute of Technology.

But who, precisely, is wearing this stuff? The local mall turns up plenty of Goths (check out the teens loitering in the black nail polish section of any Hot Topic store), but Urban Dictionary defines this subculture as: “Morbid, wearing black clothes almost all of the time, and wearing makeup regardless of sex.” This teen demo is not exactly a group known to don Alexander McQueen originals, but that’s the beauty of Steele’s show: it gives these kids a chance to dream. And maybe even pull themselves up by their Doc Maarten bootstraps and off their gloomy road to fashion hell.

Entering the exhibit is like stepping onto the set of Tim Burton’s Beetlejuice. A ghostly pirate ship hovers in the distance and a wrought iron fence pointed with fleur de lis displays fashion behind bars. This show’s real triumph is its unexpectedness. On closer inspection, Thierry Mugler’s fur neckline is revealed as ‘faux monkey fur.” Hot fashion house Rodarte – the sister act of Kate and Laura Mulleavy – play with the gothic trope of skulls, burying theirs in delicate, red Spanish lace turning out their fiery Senorita perfectly for the Day of the Dead.

Karl Lagerfeld spins a spider web from feathers and beads while fashion’s enfant terrible Hussein Chalayan fashions a cape from carpet fibers. Goth is where you find it. Alexander McQueen (who claims ancestry dating back to a woman burned at Salem) here concocts her coming out dress: a black shell practically supported by its enormous, off-kilter cross that’s well on its way to inversion.

There are more big names like Chanel and Dior, and a vitrine that rheostats from clear glass to mirrored, showcasing more emerging designers. This reflective cabinet of curiosities is a brilliant touch. And a nice place to touch up your black eyeliner.

"Gothic: Dark Glamour" is free and runs through Feb. 21. An exhibit called "Seduction" joins it on Dec. 9. And if you're still smarting from that Marc Jacobs read in the lede, start primping now. Jacobs is sponsoring "Model as Muse" at the Met. This Costume Institute retrospective starts with Dovima and ends with Giselle. It also kicks off with the Met's annual gala on May 4 and Jacobs is hosting, along with Anna, Kate and Justin. Yes, that Justin.

A-LIST: Phaidon for Fashionistas

Nothing says holiday more than a big-assed, doorstop of a coffeetable book and we think Phaidon -- which specializes in gorgie architectural tomes -- does some of the best. We’ve rounded-up our five favs for holiday gifting:


Gothic & Lolita, $29.95
You don’t have to be Gwen Stefani to know that Harajuku Girls are out of their minds, but Tokyo’s hippest school girls have moved on from the early-Bri knee socks and are working a new look that’s part Morticia Adams and part pre-teen temptress. The pics are by cult photog Masayuki Yoshingaga.


The Fashion Book, $9.95
Vogue calls it this “the ultimate fashion reference book.” And if Anna likes it, you know the type is big enough to be read with sunglasses on. This A to Zed guide to fashion belongs on the desk or, frankly, in the purse of any fashionista worth her salty. It’s a steal for under 10 dollars and really is small enough to fit in your handbag.


Andy Warhol “Giant” Size, $125.00
Okay, this is our splurge, but it’s just the thing for the size queen on your list. The Sunday Herald compared it to the Bible, only with Polaroids of drag queens and male nudes. And the giant size means your little hipster can take that portrait of Nico and make his very own bangs stencil. You get everything from party invites to personal notes from Halston.


A Dedicated Follower of Fashion, $29.95
Full disclosure, this is one of the textbooks for the class that brings you Salty, but it’s also been one of the finds of my semester. Even fuller disclosure, I bought a used copy from Amazon for a lot less clam, but I don’t know where it’s been. This brand-new, insidery look at the fashion biz would look so smart tucked under your arm when you’re waiting on line for that Marc Jacobs show.


Wallpaper* City Guides, $49.75
For less than 50 magilla, you get London, Milan, New York, Paris, Tokyo. Just think of how handy these babies will be when you start the semi-annual fashion week schlep. This box set comes bound in a pretty ribbon that will probably let you get away with not gift wrapping. You can pick up individual guides like Kyoto or Delhi for less than ten bucks, but then, who cares about Kyoto or Delhi?

CRUSH: Jean-Paul Belmondo

In 1960, Jean-Luc Godard released his nouvelle vague masterpiece Breathless, launching Jean-Paul Belmondo on an unsuspecting world. Critics talk about contemporary film history as before Breathless and after Breathless, but fashionistas could take a cue. Jean-Paul was onto something.

Belmondo springs from that white tee, wiry bod school of Brando and Dean. The former boxer (that nose!) is raw, mumbled sex appeal, but stick him in a horizontally-striped French Navy boatman sweater and send the dresser home for the rest of the shoot. We’ve pictured his Breathless co-star Jean Seaberg working the look because we prefer Belmondo out of clothes.

But the nautical look continues to rock the French. Check out another Jean-Paul, the French designer Gaultier, and the “packaging” for his Le Male fragrance bottle. And if JP and Naomi look a little waxy, it’s not from partying at Les Bains Douches. This pic was snatched from Chez Tussauds.

When Belmondo’s not in his jaunty hat and trench, his look is pretty much boxers and cigarettes. I’m a non-smoker, but I’ve always allowed my partner to light up after, and, quite frankly, during sex. I find it erotic and obviously Mlle. Erotica does too. Who can forget Breathless Mahoney smoking on the MTV Awards? We’ve collected some of Madonna’s hotter le smoking looks at left.

Finally, there are those boxers. In Breathless’ most famous scene, Belmondo romps around a hotel room in just a pair of tidy white ones. They’re impossibly geeky, and Belmondo wears them waistline well past navel, but it doesn’t matter because they’ll be doffed.

We’ve captured Richard Gere working the look in the dismal 1983 Breathless remake. And, of course, the camera has captured other memorable underoos moments. Yes, Tom Cruise sliding across the floor in his briefs and Ray-Bans and what about these white hot Calvin ads with the then "Marky" Mark grabbing his funky bunch? Exposed undergarments retain their fashionable pull on the public. You still see it today with middle-aged gay men dressed like public school students: high-rise boxers peeking from low-rise jeans.

But unlike Gere and Mr. Wahlberg, Belmondo continues to exert a profound effect on fashion. We’re ending with this triptych of Belmondo and Milk star James Franco. This pouty hottie rising has roots firmly in Jean-Paul Belmondo-ville. Just look at those lips. But enough about Franco. Back to gay Paris and that Jean-Luc Godard 1960 classic and one of the key films of the French New Wave. Imagine this: the Breathless star has just arrived in town. He steals a car. He kills a cop. He tries to get laid. Take a moment to inhale, he may leave you breathless.

OBSESSION: Ellis Island

Imagine it: you’re at the annual CFDA awards and your name is called. The year is 1986. You already have eight COTY awards under your belt and you’re a designer who once sent the Princeton cheerleaders down the catwalk and skipped down the runway after your own shows.

While you should bound up to the podium and bellow, “I’m the queen of the world,” you wobble forth, unsteadily, balancing on the arm of an assistant. You sit atop a worldwide empire that (even today) rakes in more than $850 million annually, but you can barely walk. In less than six months, you’ll be dead.

On June 2, 1986, WWD ran an obit that began: “Perry Ellis, who built a multifaceted fashion empire with a young and spirited approach to casual sportswear, was one of America's most important designers. His death at the age of 46 marked the end of a design career that lasted just over 10 years, but that left an indelible stamp on this country's fashion industry.” To put it more simply, Perry Ellis was major.

But he didn’t start out that way. Ellis was born in a small Virginia town to middle-class parents. After a six-month stint in the Coast Guard, he landed in Manhattan in the early 60s, earning his master’s in retailing at New York University.

His own home life was a bit less straightforward. He has a daughter, Tyler Alexandra Gallagher Ellis, with Maude and Mary Tyler Moore writer Barbara Gallagher. He also cavorted with his lead menswear model, almost 20 years his junior. This was back in that heady, Judith Krantz-era in fashion when one could have a family and male model, and no one questioned it.


Things soon settled down for Ellis. In 1978, he launched his own fashion house, which women loved for the smart yet casual looks (we've pictured three classics: the peacoat, the causual khaki and the perfectly hideous Christmas sweater). Two years later he shacked up with attorney Laughlin Barker, who by 1981 was president of Perry Ellis International. Their Upper West Side townhouse fetched 5.7 million the year after they both died.

That same year, Ellis was given another, posthumous honor by the CFDA, who launched the Perry Ellis Award, going to Daryl K. for womenswear and Gene Meyer for mens. More recent winners include Zac Posen and Proenza Schouler.

And while he’s remembered annually by the CFDA with this endowment, it’s also important to remember Ellis on World AIDS Day, along with his many colleagues lost to the disease. Perry Ellis: a designer who could not draw, but knew how to represent.

PROFILE: Nada Between Me and My Keffiyeh

Think about your last shopping spree and how much you spent. Unless you’re a real housewife of Atlanta, you’re probably not keeping up with Mustafa Mohammed. The 28-year-old engineering and computer science grad details a recent trip Lebanon. “I blew four grand in 10 days,” he admits sheepishly, “I probably spent $25,000 this year on clothes.”

When sharing his fashion influences, he names his sister, who loves 70s and 80s vintage clothing and used to wear short skirts on the streets of Baghdad. I’m surprised, but Mohammed explains that in the 50s, 60s, and 70s, Iraqi was very liberal. “Women wore short skirts,” he says, “It was like any other Western country.”

Medical care necessitated a six-year relocation to London in the 80s after Mohammed drank bleach as a toddler. “I wanted to be Michael Jackson,” he jokes. But his family returned to Baghdad where his sister continued working leather minis until about 1990. That’s when his native land became less fashion forward. “I can’t carry a bag,” he says, “after 2003, no rings or bracelets.”

Asked for a key designer, Mohammed rolls out an exhaustive list. “I love the vintage you can find in New York City,” he says, “vintage Gucci, Versace and Dior.” I’m almost onto the next question, but he holds up his hand. “I like Prada for suits, Vuitton for wallets, Versace and D&G for belts,” he continues, “for jeans I like Diesel and Robin’s Jean. And I like Mason and Ben Sherman for shoes.”

Ben Sherman? Isn’t that where shavs shop to dress up their East End blokes? “The have great shoes,” he replies, “you should check them out.” But he’s not finished. “I like Bottega for bags and Tumi for more formal ones. I just bought a gorgeous Tumi bag for about $400. Oh, and I like Josef Aboud for scarves.”

He’s ready to move onto gloves, but I want to know what he thinks of Jerk magazine, which recently ran an opinion piece on the politics behind the keffiyeh, a traditional Middle-Eastern cotton headdress that The Independent called “a symbol of Islamic militancy.” Arafat wore one, and Rachel Ray and Ricky Martin also got into hot water for theirs.

“The keffiyeh has nothing to do with Palestine,” he begins, “it is part of the traditional dress of many Arab countries in the Persian Gulf: Iraq, Syria, Lebanon.” He has keffiyehs in several colors he used to wear to high school. He pauses, then asks, “The P.L.O wears pants, too, should we stop wearing pants?”