Terre Haute Couture
I KNOW THAT YOU WILL FIND THIS HARD TO BELIEVE, but I am the man who put the “Haute” in “Haute Couture.” I am not the man who put the “Haute” in Terre Haute (That’s French for, “He’s the man who put the ‘Haute’ somewhere else.”)
I can make that confession about Haute Couture because I have kept a clear eye on Fashion trends over the past fifty years. I’ve watched what’s Hot in Haute.
I have watched the hemlines on skirts go up and down like my blood pressure chart. I have watched polyester come and go – and come back again like a stray cat that knows where to get a free meal.
Folk Rock, Bubble Gum, Acid Rock, Disco, Grunge, and Hip Hop. Good, Bad, and Indifferent. They have all bobbed to the surface and sunk again, only to make an occasional encore.
Fashion and Music are tied together, one influencing the other – not always in a beneficial or symbiotic way. Disco and Polyester overloaded to produce a lot of sweaty people, but little else that was memorable after the sun came up.
Sometimes there are echoes in Fashion that bounce and return long after common sense and bad acoustics would justify.
That is what I experienced this morning. It was more than just an echo. It was closer to an Acid Flashback.
I was sitting and sipping my morning coffee when a morsel of 1969 walked through the door. She got our immediate attention with the paisley print shift that was too short for the weather. The hemline was matched with the calf high leather boots. It was like she had just stepped off the double-decker bus from Carnaby Street.
With her long blonde hair ironed as straight as Marcia Brady ever dreamed of she had her look To-get-her.
Her only default to today was in her make-up. She had foregone the pale lipstick and dark eyeliner for a more modern, softer, look.
The effect she was looking for was achieved because, when she walked in, every eye turned to watch her cross the room.
I could have sworn I heard “Hey Jude” faintly in the background.
I knew that I wasn’t alone in this Flashback when one of the Usual Suspects leaned toward me and said, “She makes me want to drop some Acid and put on a Ravi Shankar album.”
The spell was broken when the young Jean Shrimpton sat down and turned on her computer without first Tuning In and Dropping Out.
I decided that I should compliment her on her look, so when I gathered up my morning debris, I walked over to her table.
I told her that she had really nailed the ‘60s look from top to bottom. She thanked me saying, “Some styles need to come back.”
This girl wasn’t just a Millennial Clothes Horse. She was an Evangelist preaching a return to another lifetime.
I like it when something or someone out of the ordinary passes in front of my eyes. It serves as a pleasant diversion and puts the “Haute” back in Terre Haute.
“Blessed are those with The London Look for they shall inherit the ‘60s and sit at the right hand of Twiggy.”