NICOLE STEINBERG

Getting Lucky in December

You're never too cool to be a geeky fan girl.
For me, it's all about de la Renta and Madonna
circa True Blue, the escapist impulses of candy
apple glaze and slim, strapless dresses. Ziggy
Stardust is hiding in these plaid-patterned pants,
thoroughly gratified and ready for a party.
I'll happily do cartwheels for Tippi Hedren's
elegance: highbrow drama that’s truly effortless.
I've got a serious case of wardrobe monotony
and could use some ensemble evolution. With
high-tech advances in nail-polish technology
and a control top to camouflage my chunkier side,
I'll elevate my look without sacrificing sex appeal,
combine look-at-me allure with a shrunken silhouette.



Getting Lucky in March

Montreal is a hotbed of darkly lacquered
models: chin-nuzzling Patti Smiths between
shampoos, a riotous jumble of ultra-romantic,
tactile molecules. Bleary after a long voyage,
I tie one on with a Brazilian dandy, particularly
smitten with the cut of his vest. I try to follow
the action of the clashing Doris Days who
vamp to make their velvety arms look thinner.
The flirty menswear chameleon overestimates
the power of exaggerated charm—I'm freezing
in a blazer and chunky faux gems, feeling
punchy and world-weary, with nothing to rely on.
These towering tiers of makeup: a costume that
gets the point across, then lasts until I wash it off.



Getting Lucky in March

I keep acoustic in wild fringe and suede,
Wonka-pink barrettes with quiet attitude.
I get excited imagining the history of a closet:
a space appointed for weathered Levi's,
'60s-style timepieces and old desk lamps--
a myriad of found items reminiscent of
an unfinished hippie, her irksome mania.
What does spring have to offer? The security
of woven cardigans draped artfully over
a Gal Friday's shoulders; soft denim worn
from riding; Japanese cousins who stay
for the weekend, playing the Beatles and
smudging chocolate on their skirts, swirling
as they do the twist, looking like they belong.