KEY POINTS:
What on Earth does one wear to meet legendary fashion police Trinny and Susannah? I was asked to MC their assault on Auckland at various Westfield shopping centres and, as per the schedule, I was due to meet the girls for a briefing session.
It would have been
difficult enough deciding what to wear anyway, but for me the problem was compounded in that I have no style.
There's a reason for that. I grew up in Hamilton in the 80s. Say no more. By day, my look was a poodle perm, blue mascara and a feather earring teamed with an off-the-shoulder flash dance top, acid wash baggy jeans and plastic heels. By night, it was a pair of dungarees half undone (remember Dexy's Midnight Runners?), a bandanna around my head and the same earring - such versatility surely the sign of a well-chosen accessory.
I've consistently featured on the worst-dressed lists - and with good reason. To be fair, I can scrub up okay when I have a team of highly trained professionals to "do" me, but there were no such people to be found early on Tuesday morning in the People's Republic of Grey Lynn as I scrambled around trying to find something that would fly under the radar of T and S.
The dress was relatively self-selecting - a Trelise Cooper number, scoop neck, nipped in at the waist and a full skirt. The real problem was footwear. I didn't have any black summer shoes that would go with the dress. I had been meaning to get something appropriate but I hadn't got around to it and I was due at the meeting in 10 minutes. The only shoes in any way suitable were a pair of black-and-rope espadrille-type things and they would have to do. I hoped the look would be reminiscent of a 50s French girl - sort of Audrey Hepburn shopping in Cannes. I didn't have time to get my hair done, so off to the hotel suite I went au naturel. And that's the other reason I don't have any style - name one truly stylish woman who has frizzy hair.
If mine is tamed by an artiste of a hairdresser, it can look okay. Left to its own devices, it's like a pubic mound slapped on top of my scalp. Hideous.
But there it was. Anyway, the meeting wasn't about me, it was about the girls and I was hoping they'd be so poleaxed with jet lag that they wouldn't even notice me.
Fat chance. It was like being monstered by fragrant and finely bred attack hounds. These girls are machines. It is their mission to save women from ignorance and apathy, and their minds work like computers, processing what is in front of them, making corrections and spitting out information in a matter of seconds.
For me, it was, "Oh god. That hair. Get it straightened and chop three inches off immediately. That dress is perfect for your body shape - absolutely perfect - but ankle strap shoes - no. Ghastly. What were you thinking?" Indeed. What was I thinking? I took them into work at ZB, my hair blow-waved and three inches shorter that very night, and one of the lovely young long-legged journos kindly took the offending shoes off my hands - or feet.
Watching Trinny and Susannah in action is inspirational. Thousands of women turned out at the malls and the lucky ones who were chosen - if it can be considered lucky to be stripped naked on stage with just a curtain held by Trinny and me as your protection from the eyes of a hall full of strangers - were shown how their looks and lives could be changed with just a nipped-in jacket or a halter-neck dress. It's a revelation, especially for a style-free zone such as me.
And we don't mind these girls telling us bluntly and in no uncertain terms where it is we're going wrong because we know we need help.
When we poor, benighted plebs gasped as with a hoick on each bra strap, T and S lifted a matron's bosom to reveal shape and form below her boobs, Trinny scoffed. "Honestly," she said, "you'd think we were David Copperfield performing magic tricks."
But it was like magic. They assessed John Campbell and, with just a few sentences, transformed him. Get rid of the jacket, it's far too big, the shirt was the wrong colour, he needed cream or ecru, the pleated pants had to go, and get a fitted single button jacket and slim pants a la Tom Ford.
As they were talking, I could see John in exactly that and my God - he was hot. I have always loved John for his mind, but my thoughts were turning fanciful as I envisaged him in the Gucci suit.
Remember when the outgoing French ambassador ravaged New Zealand women for their lack of style? Much as it pains me to admit it, he was right then and he's still right now.
Oh, there are some gorgeous creatures out there who are immaculately turned out at all times and full credit to them. But the rest of us really do need to lift our game - and lift our boobs off our chests with decent-fitting bras.
There's a vicious blog debate going on about why New Zealand's most eligible bachelors are being snapped up by hot, foreign women, and the general consensus among men seems to be that Kiwi girls are foul-mouthed drunkards, lacking in femininity who have no idea how to dress themselves.
Looking around the malls, you can see at least one of those complaints is true. Many women dress apologetically, or to make themselves invisible. Dressing well is not about money - you can pick up stylish garments for next to nothing. It's about self-knowledge, self-awareness and paying heed to good advice.
It's been extraordinary travelling around with them, like being a nerdy girl hanging out with the cool gang for a while. They work hard, they're the best of mates and spent far longer than the itinerary allowed mingling with women in the malls. Because they really care. And if they care that I'm not making the most of myself, it seems only polite that I care too.
