EXPERIENCE: Annie Leibovitz's Wonderland

Memory is a funny thing with a will all its own. We forget something told to us 10 minutes ago, or even the mission that brought us to a room. Then there are other times. Precise, small moments that seem unimportant but stay imprinted on us like a photograph we carry in our minds. These powerful memories often attach to the first time we heard a favorite song or read the final pages in our most beloved novel. For me that moment is the first time I saw my favorite fashion editorial.

In December of 2003, I was a junior in high school. I always enjoyed fashion and the latest trends such as chandelier earrings and the Hard Tail pants craze. But something in me changed when I first saw Annie Leibovitz's “Alice in Wonderland” fashion editorial spread for Vogue's December issue. The 12-page editorial featured a 21-year-old Natalia Vodianova, the doe-eyed Russian model with a fairytale rags-to-riches story of her own. Each page delivered an adventure unto its own. Staying true to Alice's signature color, Vodianova dons a new breathtaking blue couture gown in each photo, and the designer of each dress poses alongside the model as a character from Lewis Carroll's whimsical story. In one scene, John Galliano poses as the Queen of Hearts; in another, Tom Ford and Vodianova fall down the rabbit hole together. Apart from the beautiful imagery and the decadence of the dresses, what I realized that day was that fashion isn't just clothes. Fashion possesses the power to tell a story, to reveal something about a person that escaped you before. It reflects human emotions and desires, and the best part is, fashion unlocks the imagination. At least that's what it did for me that day in my high-school library.

EXPERIENCE: Fashionista Fantasy Comes True

Attention bargain hunters: there are major deals to be found at Frankie and Faye, the Armory Square boutique that houses off-season finds from the high-end Jet Black store. Until the end of the year, EVERYTHING in the store is $30.

Our visit turned up gorgeous items such as Diane von Furstenberg wrap dresses, Tahari skirts, Tory Burch tunics, Theory trousers, and about a gillion other amazing deals.

It also turned up what might be the deal of a century: a $550 Zoe Chicco necklace for – you guessed it - $30. A quick trip to the jeweler down the street confirmed that the necklace is 14 carat gold, complete with a tiger’s eye pendant with a (real!) diamond embedded in the center.

As you can probably tell, I was pretty ecstatic about it:




The sale goes until the end of the year, but it only started a few days ago – so hurry before the best deals get snatched up and away!

Frankie and Faye is located across from Pasta’s at 317 S. Franklin St.
The store is closed on Mondays and open all other days of the week from 11am – 8pm.

EXPERIENCE: The Day the Accessory Died

Flashback to the last week of August: School commences, and Queen Bee Karen Bakke, associate professor and coordinator of the fashion design department, offers an introduction to her accessories class. About 30 females, myself included, fill up her classroom on the third floor of Shaffer. We brainstorm and ponder a question: What is an accessory?

The dictionary defines an accessory as “an object or device not essential in itself but adding to the beauty, convenience, or effectiveness of something else.” For some, Coach sunglasses and Tiffany charms classify as favorite accessories. Other people find themselves in shoe fetishes and endless handbag collections. I found and lost my ultimate accessory on my trek home to Medway, Mass. for Thanksgiving.

This past Monday, I decelerated onto the Herkimer-Little Falls rest area off of I-90. The brakes locked, the shift froze, the wheel failed to complete a full circle. Halt. A sign reads: History Happened Here. With 165,738 miles on the odometer, the family heirloom kicked it as my 1991 Volvo 240 experienced Rigamortis.

As I sat in my dead car, I remembered all the times my mother loaded the car with baskets of my shoes for the annual road trip to Syracuse, the times I applied my make-up in the rear view mirror while driving to work, the times my sister changed into her gym clothes in the backseat, and at that moment I realized how much my car represented an extension of my identity. Just like a good accessory. After all, our culture provides examples every day that cars exist as the ultimate accessory (think of Hollywood stars stepping out of Prius sedans at the Academy Awards or rappers rolling up to the club in Escalades with spinning rims).

When Jim the highway mechanic ushered my automobile onto the tow truck, I recognized my boxy sedan as classic, timeless, a collector's item. Cream in color, it matched every outfit worn since I began driving at age 16. The car's adaptability to the evolution of fashion proved its greatest feat. As a tribute to my love lost, a car irreplaceable, I suggest the Top Five Fads in Fashion during its lifetime.

5. Pleather and Platforms (circa Spice Girls)

4. Uggs

3. Nirvana Grunge: the androgynous flannel shirt

2. The scrunchy

1. “I’m coming out”: exposing the belly button through piercings, low-rise pants, and cut-off tanks

RIP VOLVO 1991-2008

EXPERIENCE: Origins to the Rescue

After six hours of classes, I head to Carousel Mall for a little afternoon delight. I wear sweats, a sorority tee, and my Ted Baker glasses. My body aches and my eyes feel as heavy as the doors of Macy’s. Inside, I dig through my purse to find some chap stick. My lips burn and sting. I lick my lips as I dig through my large satchel. Just as I walk by the Origins counter, I drop my large leopard bag, and my whole life explodes onto the tile floor.

A young sales woman in a little green Origins apron runs over. She helps me pick up my life. “Missy! You look a little worn out today,” the cute little brunette says as she helps me. “What’s wrong?”

I explain my stressful day and how I couldn’t find my chap stick. I’ve never been an Origins fan with one major exception: their chap stick became a minor addiction in high school. “Honey, I’m gonna give you a little makeover,” the Origins helper says. “I think you deserve a little pampering.”

Em, the saleswomen, sits me down in director-style chair and grabs a cotton ball, pours a little A Perfect World Liquid moisture with White Tea ($21) on it, and then sweeps it against my makeup-free face. She tells me it helps to hydrate my dry skin during this cold winter weather.



She grabs the Lip Remedy Soothing Lip Saver ($12) and exclaims, “I am so sorry I didn’t get you this first your lips must hate me.” I giggle a little as she runs it over my lips.



‘So now that your skin feels a little better is there anything else that you might need this winter season” she asks.

I reply: “Well my eyes get really puffy in the cold air. I’m from California and I still don’t think that my skin likes it here.” She runs over to her counter of goodies and grabs the No Puffery cooling mask for puffy eyes ($21). She places it next to me and explains the direction on the back.



She walks back over to the counter and grabs a few makeup essentials. She quickly covers up my dark circles under my eyes with concealer then covers my face with powder and bronzer. She adds some mascara and screams, “Wah-laah!’

I give her my Visa to buy the liquid moisture, lip remedy, and puffy eye mask. I thank her for brightening my day and walk out into the rest of the mall with a little skip and a little less schlump.

EXPERIENCE: Camden Club Kidzz

“Morning Crescent, mind the gap,” Chimes the dainty British voice, that has come to narrate my daily commute around London. As the doors open, all the girls with shaggy bangs and dapper lads pile out and into the tube station. My friends and I follow the young masses up the stairs and into the night. Outside I catch the reflection of a bright neon sign in one of the many puddles that line Camden High Street. I see a couple sharing pints outside a pub; boys, in Goth make-up, excitedly chat about what club they want to go to next.

Welcome to Camden: epicenter of all that is gritty, raw, fun, and fashionable. By day it serves as London’s funkiest open-air market and the inspiration for J.K. Rowling’s Diaganon Alley in the Harry Potter books. By night it shifts to the glam and swill that gave birth to Amy Winehouse (known as the legend of Camden).

On this night we cross the busy street to club Koko. A long line winds around the side of theater-turn-dance-club. My friends complain, but I see this as the perfect opportunity to soak in some of London’s street fashion. To my right, I see a girl with bleach-blonde hair. She sports bright heliotrope tights with lots of runs. Between puffs on her cigarette, she discusses music festivals with her eyeliner-laden friend who wears a high waisted, salmon-and-navy skirt. While the girls deliver smashing outfits, the boys sport totally mental looks. One guy wears a see-through garbage bag that drapes around his chest. He and his mate dress hospital chic (scrubs, red lipstick and fake blood).

After 20 minutes of waiting and 12 pounds for the cover charge, we move into the club, which features soaring balconies and black lights. Between the bustling bodies, I spy Victoria Beckham inspired coifs, nerdy black Buddy Holly glasses, and raccoon styled eye shadow.

While dancing to the techno beats, I admire the ease these London kids feel in their garish get-ups. What happens here travels fast: Cool hunters watch and copy these looks, until kooky glasses and chartreuse tights crowd the shelves at Topshop. I know the looks I see tonight will soon appear in magazines such as Vice and Nylon. But these boys and girls aren’t thinking about that. They live, dance and dress for the moment. So I follow suit. I grab a sudsy Strongbow, begin to move my body to the beat, and watch as an Edwardian styled prince snogs his Gothic Lolita princess.

EXPERIENCE: Wigging Out

One rainy Friday afternoon, a constant stream of curious shoppers buzzed in and out of a bustling boutique inside Carousel Mall in Syracuse, New York.

“A wig shop?” on passerby, a middle-aged soccer mom with a graying pixie cut, asked her portly husband. “You don’t usually see a store like that in here.”

She stopped to admire the collection of the wigs in the front display case. Wigs featuring braids, day-glo Mohawks, sparkly hats, and mullets sat on a row of mannequin heads. “What do you think they’re made with?” her husband asked. “Probably gerbil or hamster hair I bet.”

Undeterred, the woman stepped inside the store. She passed by a rainbow Flock of Seagulls wig, and a Katie Holmes bob. Her husband parked himself on the bench outside. The saleswoman rushed to the soccer mom’s side. “Hi hon, how are you today? What are you in for? Would you like to try something new?”

“I’d love to try really long hair,” laughed the woman, eying a long strawberry-blonde wig. “How about something red?”

“You can try something long, but I think brown is more your color. Try it on, you’ll love it,” the saleswoman cooed as she led the woman to the makeshift salon in the back of the store.

The song “Bossy” by Kelis blasted over the sound system. In the back room a hodge-podge of beauty products, bandannas, and rhinestone clips lay scattered among the racks of mannequin heads, wigs, and sequined trucker hats. Kanekalon-braid hair lined the walls. Glass shelves strained under neutralizers, relaxers, and setting jam. Clear plastic tubs held brushes, combs, and curlers like candy. “I Heart Jesus” scarves hung near the door.

The saleswoman produced the brunette wig with a flourish as the woman perched high in the salon chair. She pulled a nylon skullcap on the woman’s head, and eased the wig on top. In a flurry of bobby pins, the saleswoman poked and prodded before wheeling the chair around to face the mirror.

The woman smiled, moved forward in the chair, and then reached up and gathered her into a ponytail. Five minutes and $30 later, the woman left the store and joined her husband giggling and flipping her hair. The saleswoman greeted the next customer, standing in the doorway.

HOT COCOA’S HAIR AND BEAUTY SUPPLY
CAROUSEL MALL, SYRACUSE, NY
(315) 422-6262
www.hotcocoashair.com

EXPERIENCE: Booted at Barneys

Sprawled out on the bed of the Hampton Inn Manhattan-SoHo, I insist to my father:

“Barneys is my closet.”

“Keep dreaming,” he snaps and throws me my worn-out leather boots. In my mind I think Louboutins! Daddy motions for me to get going for dinner. Lacing up my shoes, remnants of a purchase last year at TJ Maxx, I pine for the lavishness of my afternoon. Just hours earlier on this Friday afternoon, I pranced my way up the escalators of Barneys New York. Thumbing through Lanvin lace and Dries Van Noten minks, I believed the merchandise belonged to me. All mine. I felt at home.

Two months ago, it was home. I worked the Madison Avenue location over the summer and spent my time with the best of company: mass quantities of luxury goods. Proenza Schouler. Alaia. Givenchy. Versace. Rattling them off defined my job. Running around performing price checks on Prada and size exchanges on Miu Miu, I established an expertise in designer clothing. Up in the Studio Services department, an exclusive alcove on the eighth floor, I witnessed the behind-the-scenes action of stylists and costume designers. Packing garment bags for big names and television shows (let your imagination fill in the blanks: customer confidentiality), I embraced the fast paced nature of the fashion world. I also discovered my strengths: time management and reliability. And my weaknesses: a love for high-end footwear.

On my visit back to my favorite store, I pay respects to my friends on the fourth level-- Salon Shoes. A sucker for the red soles, I bypass the Manolos, dedicating my attention to the Christian Louboutin niche. I delve into my alter ego and decide on a pair of knee-high python stiletto boots. I check the bottom right foot: $2,600.

“Look who it is!” Chris, head honcho among the sales associates, exclaims. Dressed in a Dolce dress shirt, he swaggers toward me and kisses my cheek. I blush. He knows my schtick and escorts me to a love seat. Within moments, the objects of my affection adorn my feet.

“Take your time.” Chris assures me with a wink.

As soft as butter, the shoes melt around my feet. I tiptoe across the lush carpeting, pausing at every mirror. Two familiar young men poke their heads out of the stock room to catch a glimpse. A third chimes in, snapping a photograph with his Blackberry®. I kick up my heel and crack a smile for the camera.

EXPERIENCE: Some Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

What Syracuse lacks in tropical climates it makes up for in shopping options: The Carousel Center boasts more than 150 clothing stores. But despite that abundance of consumerist options, some of us crave more rarified style and personal attention. For those in need of something new, look no further than Some Girls Boutique (145 Marshall Street). Some Girls Boutique, aptly named after the Rolling Stones album, offers edgy contemporary wear.
Walk into the boutique and a strawberry-shortcake yellow and pink interior greets you. Style symbols such as Twiggy, Grace Kelly, and Bridgette Bardot cover the walls along with velvet embossed picture frames that hold precious gold earrings. The clothes hang like a rainbow made up of chiffon, taffeta, nylon, and cotton. Sifting through the racks, you find lacy Bohemian tops by Free People, Mod bomber jackets by BB Dakota, and the classic bold colored V-necks of American Apparel. A Look Book highlights this season trends so that customers can shop accordingly.



Beyond hard-to-find-in-Syracuse fashions, Some Girls also offers great customer service that creates a friendly atmosphere. While cheerfully helping girls in the store, Emily Mackay, a buyer and sales assistant, works the phones to secure the perfect black leotard for a customer on the other line. Some customers return two or three times a week to check out the new selection and chat with the sales assistants. Check out Some Girls Boutique website (www.somegirlsboutique.com) for member discounts and invitations to special promotional parties. Stop by Some Girls Boutique and mention Salty Style Blogspot to receive 15 percent off your next purchase. Some girls just know the best place to shop.

EXPERIENCE: Fierce Fundraising

Paris went up in flames on October twentieth, at the Syracuse Stage Guild Annual Fashion Show Fundraiser at the Delavan Center. The night celebrated the 20th anniversary of the fashion fundraiser for Syracuse Stage. The bare warehouse gave the gritty feel of a Chelsea gallery opening minus the over priced drinks. The fundraiser featured an array of boutique designers such as the bold Michelle Darin (www.michelledarinjewelry.com), whose chunky, nature inspired jewels sparkled in the dwindling factory lights. Before the show I grabbed a quick word in with Giovanna McCarthy, chair of the fundraiser. She epitomized style with a spunky blonde bob and midriff-baring black dress, something not every 42-year-old could pull off. Giovanna described herself as a go-getter and shared how she hoped to create a fashionable environment with the fundraiser. She scanned the packed gallery and smiled. “We need a collective group of creative individuals to revitalize down town,” she said. We took our seats as young models began their slinks down the runway. The show featured Syracuse staples such as Eva’s boutique, Rhoda Dendron, Show off, and Headlines. While Some Girls Boutique rocked the runway with striking neon jersey dresses, Hats by Priscilla stopped the show. Madonna’s Vogue boomed for the display of elaborate church hats. As a metallic cap sauntered by, my neighbor turned to me and said: "Now that’s a Jiffy pop hat." Hat’s by Priscilla ended with a dazzling gold Cleopatra beaded bonnet. Project Runway contestant and Syracuse native Jennifer Diedrich’s Spring/Summer collection delivered a grand show of pastel-infused art deco constructions. A sassy gold chain purse caught my eye. A strip woven dress forced me to crane my neck as it sashayed away. The show ended with cupcake confections and a warm thank you from Giavanna.

EXPERIENCE: Clutter in the Closet

An untapped resource, the Cluttered Closet Consignment Boutique (742 S. Beach Street, Syracuse, New York) is a fashionista’s dream. Men’s, women’s, new, and old. Leather, fur, sequins galore. Go to the Cluttered Closet for cheap, vintage finds that scream look at me. Wigs, shoes, scarves, pins, and hats line the walls. Rows and rows of skirts, shirts, jackets, pants.

Owner Kathleen O’Toole says that she has “a big following of people who want something out of the mainstream.” O’Toole maintains an abundance of unique items. “A lot of people shop for me; they consign and they know what sells,” she says. She gets so many new items daily that she must turn some away. Volunteers come in to help O’Toole “keep up” and earn a discount in return. Students, locals, and even people from other states visit.

A family owned and operated endeavor, the Cluttered Closet moved to the Westcott area two years ago after 16 years in Cicero, New York. When asked about her shop’s name, O’Toole says she knew “what it was gonna look like eventually.” “People can’t be disappointed,” she says, “if the name is the Cluttered Closet and the place is cluttered.”

EXPERIENCE: Something Old, Something Blue

Stationed along side me during my ritual Friday manicure, the polished priss gushed over the cheetah ring I slipped on to my index finger. “A conversation piece,” the middle aged woman remarked. I smiled.

“Vintage?” she asked. I smiled again. “Then you must check out the show this weekend. Last year, I picked up the most fabulous silver fox coat—fifff-ty dollllars.” She blew on her new set of acrylics and filled me in on the annual Salt City Antiques Show. On a mission to collect her kids from the bus stop, my new friend slipped directions into my purse.

I pulled up to a deserted lot the following morning and barely recognized the New York State Fairgrounds. With zero vendors or tourists in sight, I ventured into the Century of Progress Building. A sign read:

October 25 & 26
Admission:
$6.00 day pass
$7.00 VIP weekend pass

I decided on the former.

A steady flow of baby boomers streamed into the doors. I felt outnumbered. Unsure where to begin, row A or row M, I turned my attention: accessories.

I poked through a pile of charms, perusing pieces of Lucite, enamel, and ox bone. An array of deco animal brooches sparkled under a glass surface. In an adjacent booth, a man dressed as if he headed for a horse race (including top hat and bow tie) approached me.

“Some of these clothes are made for you,” he insisted, escorting me over to a red floor-length sequin gown.

“How about the leopard print?” he asked.

I laughed.

And moved on to handbags. I ventured to a particular corner of row C. Chainmail purses with cut steal beads laid across a table, remnants of the Art Nouveau era. The price tag read $28. I petted a perfect python purse circa 1940.

“You want it? I'll give it to you for $20,” the owner offered.

I hit the jackpot. But rather than settle, I continued my way through the venue. I saw a hot-pink flash in the distance caused my heart to skip a beat.

“Elsa Schiaparelli!” I uttered to myself. A trace of the 1950s, the hat box called to me from a mile a way. I pounced.

“Pretty blue hat,” a group of grandmas announced as they doted on me. With the asymmetrical piece in place, I looked in the mirror.

“You have the looks to carry off everything,” the chorus of grannies ooed and awwed.

To test it, I jumped up and down. The toque remained fixed. Unwilling to remove it from my head, I made my purchase, my mission accomplished.

“You gotta sway a little bit more when you walk,” one of the grannies called after me.

I work it through the tide of boomers right back out to the parking lot.