Back when I was young, in the 1970s, the cool thing was to wear long hair, sidewhiskers, and platform heels. I had an Yves St. Laurent suit that was nipped in at the waist, with gigantic lapels, false shoulders, and flared hiphuggers. It was worn with shirts with high and long collars and ties that were about as thick as coat sleeves. When I wore it I KNEW I was cool.
And the casual wear was just as bad. Or worse:
There are few photos of me during that time, and access to them is tightly restricted to family and close friends. That’s because, with today’s eyes, I looked ridiculous. We all did; the ’70s were a time of some of the worst fashion taste ever. The great thing, then, is that I didn’t have to keep wearing those hideous clothes and that stupid hair.
Which brings us to this little darling:
Sure, he’s an extreme example. Few people go to the trouble of mutilating themselves by stretching their earlobes like members of some savage Amazon tribe. But tattoos have become ubiquitous. I see otherwise beautiful women all the time who have disfigured themselves with tattoos, many of them where they can’t be covered with clothes. And the worst thing is that even those that are skilfully applied are not esthetically pleasing, but in the worst of taste: dragons, flags, gothic-style script, etc. They’re usually comparable in elegance to a “velvet Elvis”.
So here’s the thing, sweethearts. In twenty years, your tattoos are going to be as lame and embarrassing as my blue plaid bellbottoms and wide white belt. But you’ll still be wearing them. You’ll be just as pathetic as those old guys you see still wearing pony tails, trying to hang on to the glory of their long-vanished youth. Don’t say you weren’t warned.