We’ve discussed Kelly Osbourne’s hair. It’s still on my bothersome list, but her latest offense makes the hair almost palatable. Not really, at 27, she’s way past her Go-Gos phase and should act like a semi-grown girl. But look at her mentors–Paris and Kim. Thirty is clearly the new seventeen.
At the Emmys last week Kelly matched her dress to that God-awful purple grey hair and sported a $250,000 manicure. Not a typo, girlfriends. The manicure cost a quarter million dollars. Despite having English lineage, manners escaped her as she bragged about said manicure. Kelly, dear, we couldn’t be positive you were spoiled and self entitled before. Now, darling, we are certain. You join the ranks of Paris Hilton and the ever insufferable Kim K. You weren’t formerly on the list because of that time when you were young, chubby, more humble and perhaps not famous by choice.
Seems the nail polish, which was, meh, okay, is filled with crushed diamonds. Really? Did Kelly pay for the privilege? Of course not. By virtue of her birth as Ozzy and Sharon’s offspring she was gifted the manicure, somehow making it better. And more brag worthy. She’s used to gifts; after all she was gifted my career. She stole my spot on Fashion Police. It’s a grievous error for which I will never forgive Miss Rivers.
Dear Joan forgets those of us who learned snark at her knee long before Kelly was born. Does the divine Miss Joan really believe that Kelly, Guiliana and George, who don’t know Givenchy from Pucci as they haven’t been on earth long enough, are qualified to deliver riveting fashion snark? Pfft.
As substitute host for Johnny Carson a million years ago, Miss Joan was fashion and comedy’s version of shock and awe. Yes, Joan dear, we remember the perfectly cut St. John suits and your discerning wit discussing the Queen’s unfortunate sense of style and outdated bags. We felt a stab in the heart when your husband died, leaving you a widow with a small child. We delighted in your dust yourself off work ethic as you turned your career around and built a multi-million dollar empire and gifted your daughter with a Cinderella wedding featuring twinkly lights and white fox trim. We applauded Fashion Police. Who could employ a more classic but fashion forward sense of style and snark all the while engaging in self-deprecating humor aimed at one’s own fifty-five facelifts and sagging breasts. I love you dear girl. We are kindred spirits. And then you hired Kelly Osbourne.
Whaaa? Kelly instead of me? What the hell? She doesn’t match my level of snark. Snark is a highly creative platform combining love of subject with general disdain. Kelly’s just mean and famous for being a celebrity daughter. I know, I know. She calls herself a musician, but the sound that leaves her throat belies that label. She is a potty mouthed brat famous for hissy fits on one of the first reality shows. She now sits in a chair that should be mine. Thank goodness when it comes to clothing choices, she still chooses wrong ensuring room for me in the E! closet. The girl wore pajama pants and slippers in public without any attempt to hit the photographer with her bag for snapping a photo as proof.
If any potty mouthed fashion snarkist should be famous, it should be me. I will never forgive you for stealing my career on Fashion Police Kelly Osbourne. Enough said. I have manners after all. Sniff.
In other fashion rantings–fur–evidently is back. Those who wear fur are unaware it left the scene. I’m talking to you Anna. Anyway, fur was on the runways of Michael Kors and many others. Oscar featured it in pink and baby blue shawls and capelets. Word is global sales are up seventy percent. There are theories as to the trend, besides the historically proven one that everything cycles in and out and it’s just fur’s turn again.
Those who study fashion (More than me? Who are these people?) claim that we have a younger generation whose passion simply is not animal rights unlike the eighties when Queen Anna was served a skinned raccoon at the Four Seasons as revenge for wrapping herself in a furry hide. True story. And people wonder why she doesn’t smile.
How fur becomes a coat, a capelet or a vest is pretty disgusting, kind of like hot dogs. We know we really don’t want to know how it got here but sometimes we can’t resist; like at a baseball game or a family reunion if you must attend such things. You know where it comes from but the facts are so disturbing you do a Scarlett O’Hara and vow to think about it tomorrow. Another thought–fur is kind of like smoking. It was popular in the olden days because, who knew? Now we know better so we do better? Your last hot dog was? So do we or don’t we wear fur?
Oh hell, who am I kidding. At this point, I’d settle for a repaired rental house, a professional cut and color, a book deal, unprecedented bag sales, all the sheath dresses I can wear in a year, gold toed black pumps, a pedicure once a month and Kelly Osbourne’s chair on Fashion Police. I could give a damn about a fur vest. I don’t ask for much.