So. The Met Ball.
If only one day a dainty white envelope would slip into the glove of my doorman. My name handwritten across the centre, presenting perfectly pointed corners, glowing with the aroma of Chanel No. 5 - this envelope would carry my personal beckoning from Anna Wintour herself to attend the Met Ball. This invitation has no RSVP, as a denial of the ball is a denial of your future in New York. A denial of this night, is a denial of the only night.
A night where, I presume, the veneers are blinding and only the men eat. Where the most glamourous of the glamazons fasten on the glitz to take on the glare of the photographers. Where the wealthy are wrapped like mummys into gowns and laid to rest in the back of a superbly stretched town car to ensure their drapings are not disrupted until presentation. Only the elite A-listers, sporting the elite designers, painted by the elite make-up artists take part.
Will I ever be entitled elite? Who knows. Until that moment, I plan on assessing and addressing the gowns that were worn and are forever locked down in the Met Gala fashion vault. Top few, noticed trends, bottom few, and then finally the worst of the worst.
Leighton Meester in Emilo Pucci, Victoria Beckham in Victoria Beckham, Emma Stone in Thakoon, Dakota Johnson in Jason Wu, and Joan Smalls in Vera Wang... nailed it! I'm a sucker for a perfect cut, clean and flattering, and pretty shades.
Now, older women pretending to be princesses. I know we all loved Frozen, but neither Elsa nor Anna's dress was poufy, and I don't see why this trend was brought back solely to the A-listers who only saw the film because of their grandchildren. Apologies all of you (SJP, Sandra and Katie), but I'm not a fan. I am, however, normally the biggest fan of Marchesa gowns, I can't say this look quite did it for me either. If she brought a talking tea cup and candelabra... then maybe.
I'm sorry Reese, but I was not a fan of the flamingo pink brassiere replacement. The strange cat-eye cut, in my opinion did not suit the body type beneath it, and fell flat (pun-intended).
And the worst of the worst of the worsts? This lady right here. Somewhere between the cleavage, the torso and the topper, Kate ends up looking like she should be on the front of a really cheap box ceral, made of fruit flavoured O's.
Later Days,
xox
