Get a stylist / personal shopper.
Last Tuesday night, I abandoned my family and the work I would’ve done after the kids went to bed*, picked up my keys and drove to my nearest “brand names for less” store. To meet my stylist. Because that’s a thing that’s apparently not just for famous and rich people. Schmoes like me can get real fashion advice from someone other than that girl I used to work with who would say “you gotta stop wearing that shirt.”
So we meet at the store, she tells me the basics of what I should look for. Basically, cinch at the waist and make sure your shirts are longer than that to bring your eye down. Or something like that. I wasn’t really paying that close attention because I plan on bringing her with me anytime I need new clothes. Oh and lay off the black. That’s where it got hard for my brain to comprehend because basically everything I own is black.
Then she starts pulling things off the rack. Stuff I would never have touched in a million years. She sent me to the dressing room to try stuff on and I’m basically on What Not to Wear for the next hour and a half. Hilarity ensued (just for me because there was no way I was admitting this to her) when I was psyched that a few things she had picked were things I would totally pick… only to come out and have her all NO NO NO and shush me back into the dressing room.
With each outfit change, the crowd outside the dressing room grew, eager to see what she had come up with next. Every time I was met with “Ohhhh!!!” I was so cool for that short period of time that I’m still not sure if I dreamt the whole thing. Other girls in the dressing room asked me how I found her. The small crowd was also looking for an in on her life. She made a lot of fans that night. And she’s made a lot of appointments since then as my friends have contacted her.
Because for the next 10 days or so, I am on the cutting edge of fashion.
Booking a stylist is cheaper than you’d think – Go do it!! DO IT!!!!
*Seriously does anyone else have the guilt I have if they don’t work after the kids are in bed? I don’t have mom guilt – I have work guilt. Topic for another day.