June 21, 2006
The Simple Fug
Look, there's no denying that Nicole Richie NEEDED a stylist. Remember this?
Damn, she was a hot mess. (Although, in retrospect, her fleshly little bod is cute. She should have held on to some of that. ) The hair? No. The....knee sock things? No. The...everything? NO. No. No. No, no, no.
And then the stylist entered. And at first, it was all sweetness and light in the Kingdom of Richie. She toned up and cleaned up, and yes, she cleaned up good:
Adorable. Great color, great accessories, great change for the better. Well done, Nicole! Well done, Stylist Whose Name We Didn't Know At The Time.
And then. Then things took, as we all know, a turn for the worse. Nicole got skinnier and skinnier and tanner and tanner. Her hair started to fall out. Her sunglasses ate her face. Her bag was the size of a Geo Metro. And we all learned the name of Nicole's stylist: Rachel Zoe. And for a while, Rachel Zoe was THE SHIT. All the starlets began to look Zoe-fied. Lindsay Lohan dropped weight like a kid with a tape worm. Mischa Barton could barely carry her ginourmous satchels. Everywhere you looked, everyone looked exactly the same.
And then the plot grew more sinister yet. Behold Nicole Richie in a photo taken just last night:
Behold Rachel Zoe:
It's like deja vu all over again.
Now, don't get me wrong: Nicole is almost always beautifully dressed. She suits Zoe's aesthetic more than anyone else, and I don't know if that's just serendipitous, or if Zoe and Nicole just work together nicely. But there is a limit. And I feel like the moment you wake up and look in the mirror and realize that you look EXACTLY LIKE YOUR STYLIST is the moment you decide not to rely on that stylist quite so much.
Not to mention the fact that Rachel Zoe is allegedly only 33 years old. Look at that face. Can you think of a better advertisement for the faithful application of sunscreen and the occasional consumption of saturated fat than her deep-fried ass? Break out the Coppertone once in a while, kid, or you're going to end up as leathery as the Chloe bags you pressed on every under 25 in town last season.