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Cold Style War

Prejudices abound in this battle between an Easten sexbomb and a Western powerbabe. Stiletto vs. Sneaker, take to the ring.

Western powerbabe

At least I‘m always given due warning. The unmelodious clicking of your stilettos is a warning of what is to come, and my eyes won’t take it. Please stop. I know one should steer well clear of prejudices and stereotypes. Political correctness is good for some, but allow me a tiny flirt with the stylish antagonisms between Eastern- and Western Europe. There’s an ominous clicking on Europe’s streets. You, my dear Eastern European women, have been happily prancing across Western European asphalt too long now. What’s the thing with the pointy, skybound footwear? A javelin thrower worries me less. Your thin, naked legs in those caricatures of shoes prove that well roasted chicken doesn’t just come on a plate. Who cares about the skin, what on earth do you think you’re doing to the energy crisis? If you’re not willing to be scanty here, then at least be consequent. Minimalism might be cool when it comes to art, but that shred wrapped around your ass can’t really pass as a skirt. And what’s the point of a ‘handbag’ which fits nothing but its own lining. Oh, I forgot that there’s Prada pasted on the front. You like generous labelling, don’t you, it makes you feel good about yourself in your pointless world. The amount you save around the middle and bottom you pile around the top! Leopards, tigers, snakes, and other fauna, you could go as a walking lesson on advanced zoology! All that creeping and crawling, it’s the biodiversity of the textile industry copulating with pink satin and black lace. If there were a prize for tasteless exaggeration, you’d take every category. The section on clothing is yours, hands (and cleavages) down. And I haven’t even started on that multicoloured paint pot you dive into every morning. The last time I’ve worn that much colour, I was five and flouting Indian’s war paint! But the feathers in my hair wouldn’t compete with the extent of your high-carat decorations. I’d feel sorry for a Christmas tree, carrying all that around. Take a look at the sky? No sun, right? Then what the devil are you doing with those sunglasses – especially with lenses that could pass for dinner plates. Your makeup makes such a thunderous impression that a hurricane would run and hide. Don’t you think that the last of your weekly visits to the hairdresser ended a shade too blonde? Your hair is so light I have to close my eyes perfect moment for a thought: Why the masquerade? Do you really think you can calculate the value of a woman in the height of her heels times cup size? As you blame us Western European gals for the world’s antistyle, Lady, try stepping into our blunt but stylish shoes and take a good look in the mirror—although you do that already. Style requires not superlatives but the perfect dose. I have nothing against fashion accessories of any kind, as long as I feel good beneath them. Away with the scratchy leopard-skin, I want my own skin, not his – and not every square inch of it presented for public inspection. I’m sexy without a miniskirt. We women haven’t fought long and hard for emancipation for it all to go in a puff of powder smoke. And as clichéed as it sounds: true beauty glows from the inside.

Eastern Sexbomb

True beauty glows from the inside – you wish! It might be that inner values are highly regarded. But what’s a pretty product without a selling point? You know the joke about there not being an ugly woman, just a lack of wine? If I look at you Western Europeans, I have to admit that no amount of vodka is going to remedy this situation. Wherever I look, inconspicuous wallflowers from here to the horizon. The problems start with the footwear: shoes without heels might be comfy, but I might consider taking them to my aerobics class. My little brother wears foxier jeans than you and my Yorkie more jewellery. Your favourite colour must be washed-out (if not washout!) and your tops are odious to look at. Face it, babe, there are collections that go beyond cotton T-shirts in three colour possibilities and way beyond the standard, five-pocket jeans. Obviously your poor choice of labels is only made worse by your general aversion to shopping. Do you live by the maxim: spoilt for choice and choices spoilt? I don’t understand the point of walking behind a gargantuan handbag that could easily pass for a shopping bag. From a style point of view, just don’t go there! Your head is topped by a “I don’t need a trim” haircut. And I don’t want to know when your hair has seen a drying hood from the bottom. What’s the problem in making the best out of technology? Sunbeds and home-trainers are there to be used. Your stupid ascetic antics are not an excuse. Your cheeks are screaming for rouge. And if eyelashes could write wishlists, yours would have Mascara in the first line, in bold. And what about that formless cloth bag that you pretend is a jacket. Twelve year olds don’t make the style-bloopers you do, and you’re a grown woman. What were you thinking? Have you forgotten the meaning of style sense? You’re spastically running after your own authenticity; now I understand the meaning of the ugly running shoes. Lady, wake up to the fact that your personality won’t suffer from being presented in a full package—and looks are a part of that. With you, I have to say in all respect, those looks come across as unspectacular and unfeminine. I’m pretty sure that style wont survive your steady attacks. You say one scores in being natural. Could you imagine a woman might want to show what she’s got? You’re always so big on emancipation. Then don’t let your femininity be stolen like this. Use your weapons! A little more cleavage, a little less cover-ups, ok? Sexy, not unisex. Deal with it, dear, a book is, in the end, judged by its cover.

Author: Julia Fuhr, Marzena Lesinska

Photo: Ralph Pache

Translation: Adam Chrambach


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