Even while hailing the return of patent leather, leopard prints, black nails, difficult silhouettes, outrageous platform heels even strippers wouldn’t wear–everything that appeals to a girl’s sinful side–I’m bracing myself for the inevitable backlash. Soon prim, pastel, beribboned innocence will be hot again. And when that day comes, probably the only designer capable of making me wish I were a good girl will be Danielle Weingarten, proprietor of the French-inspired label Siahou.
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Weingarten’s designs are subtle, delicate, classy–and unlikely to last longer than 20 minutes on me. I ruin even sturdy items like blue jeans with dumb high jinks like hopping a fence to go jump on someone’s backyard trampoline, which is how my last favorite pair recently expired. In fact, while it wasn’t the only reason, a major motivation for my trip to New York last weekend was acquiring a pair of jeans.
I tracked some down at the Soho boutique Opening Ceremony. In the dressing room I had to stretch the leg hole with both hands just to get a foot in, and dance on one leg and then the other to pull them up. I considered yelling for help when trying to button them. They were so tight my panty lines showed through the pockets. Perfect.
Out on the street Martha started doing a maniacal dance routine to Judas Priest’s “Living After Midnight,” which only she could hear because she was jamming to her iPod. When she did the splits–which I’ve never seen her do sober–I crumpled to the ground in laughter and peed a little in my new jeans.
