I recently picked up an overpriced copy of Boobs, Boys, and High Heels a “style” manual by Thiery Mugeler’s nineties muse, Dianne Brill. She’s quite the sauce pot in her way, and her perfume recommendations are hilarious. She suggests soap, lotion, naked spray, and clothed spray, all of the same scent—the sheer volume of which would cause any mere mortals in a ten foot radius to faint from the fumes—and when you think that she certainly wore Angel, you start to understand why so many people think they hate perfume.
This kind of aggressive cosmetics application doesn’t sound like the nineties I remember. Of course I never lived in New York, or wore sequins, or seduced C list pop stars on Tuesday nights. We may have done some of the same drugs, but the comparison ends there. I remember my beloved roommate Jack in a semi-permanent state of despair over my wasted resources in the glamour department. He would have loved to see me in some sequins, but alas, he fell in love, and I got pregnant, and suddenly twenty years had passed. I did learn a little something about glamour eventually, but I never got around to Angel until a couple of weeks ago when a friend sent me that funny blue star bottle. I eyed it suspiciously, because although I know its butch/femme chocolate cacophany well, I honestly never have thought I was woman enough to wear it. Well I should have known better. This shit is sequins in a bottle. It reminds of the nineties I should have had if only I had listened to Jack, late nights dancing with Argentinian tycoons of indeterminate age, champagne on rooftops, and perfume strong enough to render my worshippers mute (and possibly blind).
Oh well, that imaginary window has closed, and Brill shills lipstick on QVC, but I do still have Jack, and his husband Kevin who inspired this blog. Even though they are far away, their presence reminds me never to waste an opportunity to overdress, and when I wear Angel, I’ll think of them.