Boulder and the Beautiful

I did not go to prom for my 30th birthday.

By luck, or probably fate, my May birthday coincides with the biggest dress-up day of the year for high schoolers.

So logically — and partially out of protest for no such similar day for “adults” — I have made a tradition of sneaking into various proms and crashing them. Crashing, in this sense, means dancing (I know, who dances at prom?) and not standing around acting self-conscious. I’ve always been a rebel.

We would arrive late and simply walk in, wearing oversized sunglasses and way too much lipstick. Miraculously, we never got caught, kicked out or arrested. Even after the smile lines around my eyes deepened. Even after I unapologetically announced my plans, year after year, in the newspaper. I’d like to think it’s because I’m so youthful and spry. But more likely, no one spoke up because they were scared.

That’s what kept me home this year. It’s totally normal to sneak into prom at age 29. But age 30? Ew. That’s. Just. Creepy.

Well, the beer kept me at home, too. (Like one and a half beers; I left my liver in San Francisco.) Which was just as well, because the real party occurred in my closet. According to the photos and not my memory whatsoever, my friends and I changed outfits every three to five minutes.

Then we brought prom home.

It was so melancholy. I pulled out my old prom dresses — all 14 of them, including the four from my uncrashed proms — and dressed my friends in them. Some fit. Some ripped. Some looked more like bathing suits.

Then, we brought the boom box to the busy street outside my house and did a fashion show. It was like everything not to wear all wrapped up on one stage — er, sidewalk. The worst fashion trends, from 1995 to 2008: poufy shoulders, heart-shaped necklines, itchy sequin straps, multi-colored velvet, lace cut-outs. The mistakes seemed to recycle every few years, blurring the decades, illuminating the hilarity of society and most certainly terrifying my neighbors.

Then, the fashion show turned into an impromptu parade. Which, by luck or probably fate, led us to the karaoke bar down the street. Which is where I saw Them.

It was heavenly: formal gowns, PBR, an open microphone, a carnival-style popcorn machine on wheels, more formal gowns — what? More gowns? The entire room was buzzing with women wearing prom dresses. Women, not girls. Old crazy ladies. Just like me.

And, unlike prom, they were dancing. On tables.

It was a bachelorette party, and for the first time probably ever, my friends and I fit right in. A birthday reminder that if you stay true to your own quirkiness, and you don’t chase the past, and you’re willing to keep marching forward (even if it is a ridiculous dress-up parade), you will eventually end up exactly where you’re meant to be.

Which brings us to my e-mail this morning.

Thin Man Tavern, 2015 E. 17th Ave. in Denver. May 30, starting at 9 p.m. Prom Night 2: The Totally Awesome Sequel, featuring prom photos and drink specials for grown ups.

I’ll be there. Arriving late, wearing oversized sunnies. Ready to crash.

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

I was not 10 steps into the Broomfield 24 Hour Fitness when I pivoted and walked back out. I didn’t even make it to the locker room.
There was no way I was sweating here, in sweatpants and an old tank top.
This was not a gym. This was a nightclub.
As if the booming hip-hop music wasn’t enough (was that a fog machine in the corner?), the girls seemed to be wearing the same outfits that they would wear to the club, except with clean, pink sneakers instead of stilettos.
Well, wait. I think a few ladies going 1.2 mph on the elliptical might have been wearing wedges.
This fitness center was a-swarm with “gym bees.”
The gym bee species, a direct descendant of the barfly, joins a gym as an extension of her Match.com profile, and always announces it on her Facebook status update: “Going to go work out! Xoxo!”
Because the gym bee places her iPhone on her treadmill while she stands there reading Cosmo and not exerting whatsoever, she can update her status in live time: “Headed to the weights! Xoxo!”
This is especially useful if a male gym bee across the room has his iPhone perched near the mirror, because, well, what if amid posing and flexing, he lost track of the hottie on the treadmill?
Problem solved. Xoxo!
As a fashion columnist, I’m the first to give a thumb’s up to pride and cleanliness. I like designer clothes and hoop earrings and fishnets and fur.
Just not on the bench press.
The she-bee spends more time picking out her perfectly coordinated brand-name top, bottoms and matching shoes than she does getting her heart rate up.
And the he-bee sports (if you can even use that verb in this context) hair gel, one or more necklaces and an Affliction shirt on top of an Ed Hardy shirt on top of an Affliction shirt on top of an Ed Hardy tattoo covering up an Affliction tattoo. And jeans.
What happened to Colorado’s true athletes? And how do these posers (literally) stay so fit, when we all see them not working out? Do they chase their evening lines of coke with 1,000 push-ups?
In search of these secrets — as well as a little sports cred — I consulted Boulder’s Kevin Wendling.
Wendling, 30, a Fairview High and University of Colorado grad, is an expert on sports attire for two reasons.
First, he is a freelance producer for TV sportscasts, from football to golf to speed skating to car racing. In his words: “I see Spandex being worn to its perfection, in all levels of sport.”
Second, he was the dude who wore the oversized bunny head, tights and a fannypack to the Bolder Boulder this week.

I know, mega cred. The only catch: On this particular day, both Wendling and I had lost our voices — completely.
So we conducted the interview via modern day note-passing: Facebook instant messaging. Note: Neither of us was on a treadmill.

Here’s how it went down:

Kevin: (Obligatory small talk) How are things at the Cam today? Are you writing about our voices eloping?
Aimee: Yes. And I wanted to write about workout clothes: dressing designer d-bag to go to the gym.
K: Maybe I should change then? How did you know what I was wearing?
A: No, you’re wearing a bunny head, right?
K: I work out in any number of costumes. Or mustaches.
A: That is why I love the Bolder Boulder. People loosen up and have fun with exercise; they don’t try to make a fashion point. So what is the story of the bunny head?
K: I wish there was a tale. I think I just go for the funniest outfits possible.
A: Have you dressed up every year?
K: Second year. But I dress up a lot for events, as often as possible. Last year I was a gladiator.
A: Where did you get the bunny head?
K: The Ritz. I rented that bad boy. A bunny was the most outstanding costume there. The rest of the outfit was American Apparel: fanny pack, leg warmers, spandex, wristbands, gloves.
A: Outstanding indeed. Was it also hot?
K: Ummm.
A: Not hott with two t’s. Like temperature-wise.
K: I don’t remember, really. I was fed a lot of cocktails during the six miles. I would say we stopped 100 times for pictures.
A: Did you train for the race?
K: To walk? No. And maybe that is why my ankle is mysteriously sprained and my big toes are black and blue.
A: Did you find that sweatbands improved your fitness capacity?
K: Absolutely, except it added to my wind resistence.
A: OK, so tell me: Why the tie? And what did you store in your fannypack?
K: Matched the leg warmers. The fannypack was full of adult beverages.
A: My friend Brittany recently met a guy at a club who was wearing a fannypack, and she asked him “What’s in the pack?” And he said, “Fruit Roll-Ups.” Apparently his friends were like, “Dude, stop wearing your fannypack to da clubs, you’re ruining our game,” but then he was the only one of them picking up girls. So then it was like, “Who’s cool now, haters?”
K: That. Is. Awesome.
A: So back to business. Do you work out?
K: Ew, that was nasty. Sounds like a cheesy pick-up line.
A: Except I am looking at a picture of a dude wearing a bunny head, so my emotions are very complex.

K: I do work out, but not like a meathead.
A: What do you wear to work out in?
K: You’d think I’d wear Spandex, but I don’t. I would love me to be in Spandex 24/7.
A: Do you like it when guys flex in the mirror excessively?
K: I don’t like it, unless it’s me. Which it usually is. Thats 60 percent of my workout, I’d say.
A: What do the pros wear to work out? Mandex? Do they wear necklaces and hair gel?
K: Some do, certainly. Big earrings on some.
A: Is that how they get so strong? By hooking weights into their lobes?
K: Lol.
A: You lolled. How did “lol” even become a word? What’s wrong with the good old-fashioned “Heh?”
K: I might start a clothing company called Lol.
A: An athletic clothing company, that makes clothes that double up for working out and working it — on the dance floor. Your insignia: a massive bunny head. Do it.
K: Just do it.
A:  I have a feeling this is how movements are made.

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Today is your lucky day.

No, you did not win “$100,000 U.S. Dollar” and all you need to do is respond to this e-mail with your bank routing number.

No, Tony Little has not launched a new infomercial series for fitness equipment that simultaneously tones your thighs while making you frolic like a woodland creature.

Better. Yes, better than the Gazelle.

Ken Izawa was in our hood. Izawa is my fashion heartbeat; my juicy bite of the Big Apple. When this style expert moved to New York several years ago, it was Boulder’s biggest fashion tragedy since the invention of Crocs. (Although Crocs continues to chisel the stone wall around my heart with its philanthropic work, including a recent donation to the nonprofit that I work for, Think Humanity. I’d like to egotistically believe it’s part of some plan to woo me.) (It is not.)

Izawa now lives on the East Coast and at www.styleforall.blogspot.com.

I reserve the word “zany” for rare occasions, maybe once per decade, due to its obvious nerdiness.

I am pulling it out today — your lucky day. The style news that Izawa brought to Boulder is that: zany. Pure zane.

Until this moment in history, trends have started on the coasts and trickled inward, leaving Midwestern states picking through the dust and debris.

For the spring of 2009, Izawa says the big cities are copying us. (Insert eye bulge here.) Sparked by the green movement, the streets of New York are looking organic, green, simple, earthy and relaxed. Those five words define Boulder. Not New York, not ever.

“From country to concrete” is what Izawa calls it, because all experts have clever titles for everything, which is part of what makes them experts.

You don’t believe me, do you? Here’s the proof: Lucky seven trends, as seen in NYC.

1. Gladiator sandals.

Mega-strappy flat sandals are still a hit. But instead of looking metallic and bejeweled, they are now earthy and natural.

2. Floor-length jersey gowns, with or without a pattern.

“This reflects more suburban-rural. It’s comfortable,” Izawa says. “You’d see it at the beach. You wouldn’t see it in the city. Until this season.”

3. Mini-floral prairie dresses. Think: Drew Barrymore of the early ’90s. Pair the chiffon dress with Docs. Wear everything with Docs. No, I’m not just saying that because I’ve been wearing Docs since the early ’90s, nonstop, even when they were “out.”

4. Southwestern style. Even if you don’t want to stick feathers in your hair, slip into skinny jeans, brown boots, a white undershirt and a light brown suede vest. Oh, you already wore that yesterday? I thought so. Then kick it up with an oversized turquoise rock or a beaded choker.

5. Natural waves. Instead of blow-drying your hair, towel-dry and tousle. A little frizz is OK. Hydrate and smooth with a dime-size of olive oil, Izawa says.

6. Simple natural-tone shoes for men, such as suede hush puppies or comfy loafers. Pair with a plain tee in natural tones, jeans or shorts. (This is all getting so obvious that it is confusing me.)

7. Ray-Ban sunglasses. I’d venture to say few Boulderites even know that Ray-Bans went out of style.

Maybe they never did.

Maybe, all of these years, we’ve been so far ahead of the New York curve that they didn’t even realize until now. Fifteen years later.

Ah yes, Boulder, the true Manhattan. And I am the new Ken Izawa.

As if.

Now that we all know how cool we are, we must tap into our local genius. You know, figure out how to keep ahead of New York’s slow-ball curve, even in this bum economy.

Here’s your chance. Bonnie Eckert, with Tres Bon Wardrobe Consulting, and Emily Wilson, with Joyful furniture, are holding a fashion show on Thursday. The event, from 6-10 p.m. at Joyful Furniture, 2000 21st St., Boulder, will promote and demonstrate ways to recycle your clothes and furniture.

The event includes a fashion show with clothes from five different consignment stores, with models ranging from size 0 to 14.

For more info, check out www.joyfulfurniture.com and www.bontresbon.com/styletips.php.

Eckert says:

Buy recycled whenever possible: clothes, jewelry, furniture, cars.

Shop consignment stores, garage sales, Craigslist and online for vintage.

Use what you already have. A wardrobe consultant can help create outfits out of what you have, and help you track down a few key accessories and pieces to pull it all together.

What’s underneath is as important (if not more) than what you wear on top. Try Spanx (www.spanx.com), Flexees (control-fabric camisoles) or Lipo in a Box (www.lipoinabox.com) to slim down and help your clothes fit right.

I heard on the radio this morning that the average woman spends 40 minutes every day doing her hair. Over a lifetime, that’s two years of combing, blow drying, gelling, curling and ratting — usually with the goal to look effortless.

I’d like to think I am helping lower that number. For the first 10 years of my life, I refused to comb my hair.

I was born trapped under a heavy mountain of what feels like horsehair. A mutation of self-growing wire. And my thick mane wasn’t satisfied with just boiling my scalp to 159 degrees on a hot summer day. It is coarse and curly, so it also tangles easily.

I wasn’t the only person who hated wrestling my head mutant. After eight years of violent combing (thereby removing all sensory capability from my follicles), my mom — who has whisper-thin, straight locks — resigned. She threatened: I didn’t start combing my own hair at least once a week, she would just cut the “rat’s nests” out.

I spent several years of my childhood with an upside-down mullet: short on the underside, long on the top. This was a good five years before it became cool for girls to shave the underside of their hair, cut zigzags into the sides and pull it into a ponytail. Ironically, my mom wouldn’t let me do that.

My mom and I (God bless her on Mother’s Day) have always had a rocky hair relationship. She is a natural brunette who dyes her hair blonde. I’m a natural blonde who dyes my hair brunette. She hates that. Yet she is the

person who got me hooked on hair dye — at the tender age of 9.

We constantly lament how expensive it is to keep up our hairy addictions, yet neither of us could imagine being our natural color. Gross. Shudder, shudder.

The economy (oh, the “e” word) doesn’t help. In fact, area hair salons report that beauty is one of the areas taking a big hit, as increasingly more people make cuts (zing!) to race away from the red.

Specifically, more people are opting for store-bought color, which promises you’ll get the same results as if you went to the salon.

But be careful, says Robert DiTacchio, creative director of Jon Ric International Salon and Day Spa in Denver (www.jonricdenver.com). More often than not, he says, people end up spending eight times what they would have if they’d just asked the pros. Eight. Times.

Boxed color costs between $15 and $30. Color correction services to fix your hair after it turns out leopard-spotty begin at $150. Salons across the area have reported a “drastic increase” in these color mess-ups — nearly double during the past year.

Unfortunately, this is a number I am contributing to. In March, I had to seek professional intervention from Fringe Hair Studio in Louisville to abolish a fire-truck red spot that I ignited near my bangs. It took three layers of bleach to conquer.

If only I had consulted someone like DiTacchio beforehand. He recommends calling in the pros when you are dealing with resisting gray, vibrant colors (perhaps fire-truck red?) and blonde. Blonde can turn green or orange. Reds can morph into dull pink.

If you do color at home and you’re not striving for a jungle pattern, get a friend to do it for you, DiTacchio says. It’s hard to see what you’re doing on your own head. The best at-home brand is L’Oreal Professional.

DiTacchio also recommends:

Even if your hair is not as thick and coarse as a cattle rope, hydrate it. Look for products with a low pH balance to seal your cuticles.

Wash color-treated hair in cold water to help close the cuticle and sustain the color longer. I have been doing this for several years, and it is completely miserable, but it works. To counteract the hair icicles, I put my towel in the dryer while I’m showering so it’s nice and toasty when I get out.

Wash your hair less to maintain the natural oils.

Use moisture-rich products, such as Aquage, Pureology and Kenra. If you can only afford drugstore brands, once again opt for L’Oreal.

And finally: Brush your hair — a lot. This is one of the best natural conditioners. Brushing your hair brings the oils from your scalp into the ends.

“I tell all of my clients to brush their hair while they’re watching TV,” DiTacchio says. “The old myth of brushing your hair 100 times before bed is true.”

Hmm.

DiTacchio, my mom totally told you to say that, didn’t she?

Here are a few other hair musings:

Guys: Grow out your hair. I liked the faux-hawk for a while, but let’s cremate it. Instead, grow out your hair a la shaggy surfer boy.

Ex-Boulderite fashionisto Ken Izawa says the up-and-coming hair trend for men in New York is to go 1940s: cropped on the sides and back, long in front, combed back with wax. Depression-era style for the New Depression.

I say this sounds a little too “punkabilly,” and the neo-greaser guys I know would not be amused by the mainstream sucking up their style. And rockabilly dudes — with their tricked out hot rods and cigarettes rolled in their T-shirt sleeves — are best to not upset. I’ve seen one too many pompadours fly across a bar counter in a bloody brawl.

Let’s say you suffer a bad dye job, a greaser knocks your skull off or your mom cuts chunks out of your hair. A good hat becomes your best friend.

Wallaroo Hats, 1880 S. Flatiron Court in Boulder, offers these tips on how to find the right hat for your face:

Round: Look for a squared crown with a medium-sized brim. Try Wallaroo’s Sonoma hat.

Oval: Larger flexible brim that folds up or down. From Wallaroo: The Catalina.

Heart: Square with a flat top. Think Panama style. Wallaroo’s version: The Canberra.

Narrow or petite: Rounded crown with shorter brim, such as Wallaroo’s Victoria Hat.

A letter to the lady in line behind me at Target:

You deserve an explanation for what happened last Saturday. It was yet another in a long list of damaging blows from socks to me.

First, the history. I have a hate-hate relationship with socks. This war was first waged during a kickboxing class in college. Front and center, I was kicking boxes like a trillion dollar baby. Bam. Uppercut, jab, jab, jump kick — and whoosh! Out of the leg of my sweatpants, with one particularly swift kick, I launched a sock rocket.

The sock wad — which had apparently smuggled itself inside my pants leg in the washing machine — landed with an audible “Wee!” in the middle of the studio. The other participants saw it and did not know how to respond. They subconsciously backed away, while not missing a kickbox beat, forming a sort of circle around the sock. It looked like a foot fetish tribal dance, or maybe like my sock was about to perform a breakdancing routine.

That was the end of my kickboxing passion.

So needless to say, what happened Saturday awoke in me Post Traumatic Socks Syndrome.

Now, the context:

1. It was my friend Vanessa’s birthday. She wanted to play trampoline dodgeball. But I was wearing a short leather skirt.

2. I ran to Target and bought a pair of sweats to change into. But by the time I returned, everyone had already jumped so much they were hyperventilating and now eating cupcakes. We’re getting old.

3. I never actually used the pants, although I did wear them for three minutes to eat a cupcake. I did not think that qualified as use, which brought me to the customer service line to return the pants.

Now, to address your unspoken (but obvious) concerns:

1. No, I do not live in a van down by the river. I had Old McDonald’s Swine Flu Farm living in my sinuses. Yes, I should have at least combed my hair.

2. My dog, which also happens to have the hairiest white rumpus of any creature on Earth, was in the backseat of my car. Even though the pants were caked in dog hair, once again, I swear they were within the bounds of an appropriate return.

3. When I shook the pants to remove their fur coat, I did not know a dirty sock had been hiding in the pants leg.

4. And no, I am definitely not Aimee Heckel, who writes a fashion column for the Camera. That was actually my sister Leah returning the pants for me.

Thanks for your understanding.

Dear Leah,

I’m sorry. Don’t go to Target for a very long time.

Love,

Aimee

Ah, yes. Socks suck. One of the reasons I love spring is it means I don’t have to touch those things for a good three months.

Of all of my clothing items, socks cause me the most stress. They’re either where I don’t want them to be — i.e. the return line at Target — or nowhere to be found, kidnapped by sock gnomes and my poodles. I feel like I am constantly digging through my bucket of widowed socks for “the other” sock. In vain.

I recently reached such a critical mass of single socks that I began unapologetically wearing mismatched socks to the gym.

My friend Laura says my problem is that my socks are bored, so they’re running away. They’re all white or black.

Laura wears striped socks, toe socks, thigh-high socks, argyle and tie-dyed and homemade and theme socks for every occasion. Her “spring gym socks” are covered in bugs and turtles.

Laura’s socks live in a 30-gallon trashcan that she could hide a body in. More than 350 pairs of socks — 22 of which have monkeys on them. Laura doesn’t own a single plain pair, except for bright green thigh-highs. And she says she has never misplaced a sock.

“If you have fun socks, you can find their mate in the laundry really fast,” she says. “The lost sock is a white sock phenomenon.”

I don’t doubt her. She’s had a feeting frenzy ever since I met her at age 10. Some women spice up their outfits with wild shoes. But Laura is a self-proclaimed “lounger.” Lounging around the house drinking rum doesn’t lend itself to shoes.

“I can’t not buy socks,” she says. “I go to Target for shampoo and I end up with shampoo and socks. I go to

PetSmart for food for the lizard and end up with socks.”

(Of course PetSmart has animal-themed socks, she says.)

Laura’s socks have sentimental value. She doesn’t like to get rid of old socks, so she learned how to fix holes. If she has trouble sleeping, all she has to do is slip into a pair of socks and she immediately nods off.

“I sometimes sleep totally nude but in socks,” she says matter-of-factly.

Which brings us to the question: Can socks be sexy? Laura insists they can. Striped socks are fashionable in a punk way. Argyle socks are hot on both men and women. Plus, if you need to shave or have gnarly feet, Laura adds, they “hide the gnarl.”

Here are some tips from Laura on how to rock socks.

You can find the best socks at Kohl’s and Target (oh, not Target), especially around Halloween time.

Check the Internet. The best site is www.sock

dreams.com.

In the summer, wear lightweight socks, thin tights or toe socks — preferably with ballet flats or Mary Janes and not flip-flops.

If you have sweaty feet, wear half socks with your heels. They cover your toes but leave your heels and arches bare.

Current legwear trends include white tights; tights with shorts; bright, primary colors, such as yellow, blue and red; sparkly tights (metallic, sequins or glitter); and sheer black pantyhose, according to the sock blog www.fashionlegwear.blogspot.com.

As for me, I have found my alternative — a different way to make a footie fashion statement while keeping your tootsies free. Boulder-based Verve, a climbing clothing company, makes boot-cut leg warmers.

Local female climbers came up with the design by cutting off the sleeves of their old sweaters, making a cone-shape cover of the calf and most of the foot.

Best of all, more than 90 percent of Verve’s clothing is made by four grandmas who left war-torn countries to move to the United States. Find Verve at www.verveclimbing.com or at local shops, such as Boulder Bodywear on Canyon Boulevard.

The bell leg warmers are lightweight and made from polyester fleece with organic cotton lycra ($18), and they allow you to add one extra layer of style to your legs.

The only problem: They are dog hair magnets.

Fortunately, I won’t be returning mine any time soon. And they go great with a leather skirt. Even on a trampoline.

This fashion tale begins with death.

The living dead, to be exact.

I was week four into recovery from an abdominal surgery, and had only recently began walking again. (Read: Hobbling like a rickety swamp creature.) That afternoon, Women’s Magazine stylist Angel Garcia asked me if I had time to pose of a fashion photo shoot for her portfolio.

Obviously I had time. My entire month’s social activities centered around Brian “Bulldog” Moore and Frank Azar. And I had already determined I didn’t want to consolidate my debt into one easy payment, become an automotive repair technician or partake in a class-action lawsuit for the drug Rybotrichomatomatein.

But fashion? Judge Judy would object. In addition to my hunchback posture, I had been wearing the same sweats for so long they were beginning to grow into my flesh. Probably.

“Perfect,” Angel said. “That’s why I asked you. It’s a zombie shoot.”

Um, thanks?

With no legitimate way out, I traded daytime TV for a black tutu and (for once) nodded approvingly at my tangled bedhead and the circles under my eyes that rivaled an entire baggage cart. I could not do much, but I could do zombie.

When my boyfriend walked in that night — expecting his little injured fawn curled around a heating pad — he instead found me with more stitches than before, hunched over the table with bloody hands and a fake heart dangling out of my mouth. Without a word, he slowly backed out the door. I found him a while later, locked in his car rocking back and forth humming nursery rhymes.

A zombie bomb, photo by Molly Plann.

I had gone too far. Again. It was time to head into the light.

In fashion (and life), we must constantly re-invent ourselves. Sometimes, the change is sparked by boredom, or nature (i.e. the “angel wings” I am growing where I used to have triceps) or, as in this case, the need for balance. And a scared boyfriend.

The depth of my fashion rut became clear when I realized most of my closet qualified as a zombie costume. Perhaps it was a way to free myself of Westwood College’s exquisite commercials, but I became obsessed with finding the perfect white dress.

Not for marriage. For balancing out my dark side.

Enter: The innocent age.

I have long criticized the white wedding tradition, believing white is a universally unflattering color, not to mention almost universally deceitful. I have a vase of near-black roses in my living room. (Yes, next to the fake heart with a stake through it.)

That’s why I had to seek help from the yang to my yin: My best friend, Brittany. Platinum blonde Brittany who has more white, eyelet and cotton in her closet than a Holister store.

I did a little research first and found out that hip trench coats, oversized necklaces and military jackets actually come in colors other than black. Who knew? And according to Glamour magazine, the little black dress has been replaced by a little-black-on-white-graphic-print dress.

Then Brittany arrived — wearing a black and purple tutu, black leggings, a black tank top, black vest and purple pumps. She looked like Coraline. Or me.

I grabbed up the first white satin dress I saw at Macy’s. It might have been a knee-length wedding gown. I don’t know. Or care. I just needed to reset the balance of the universe.

Plus, adding some light to my life sounded like an appropriate way to begin re-inventing myself. I put on the white dress.

It looked great with my black boots, black pearl necklace, black sash and long black jacket.

I left the fake heart at home.

According to Mac make-up, you don’t have to be black or white; you don’t have to wear pastel colors in the spring.

One of Mac’s current make-up trends is “Re-Evolutionary Nature.” It is a softer, less dramatic smoky eye. Cat eyes of the ’50s, but done with shadow so it’s softer than with a liquid liner.

Here are tips on re-evolutionizing your eye make-up, according to Tiffany Creamer, who works at Boulder’s Mac store on the Twenty Ninth Street mall. Turns out this look goes with both black and white.

Your eyelids can be divided into four sections: the lid, crease, brow and highlight. That’s why Mac sells shadow in four-part palates.

Start with a shadow primer in a skin-tone. This prevents creases in the darker colors.

Use a light color, such as Dazzle Light ($14.50 per shadow), to highlight the brow bone. Avoid white. This looks too artificial.

Brush a darker matte color — I used Bamboo, with an orange undertone to reflect the blue in my eyes. This adds definition. Always use one matte color; all shimmering reflects only one surface.

Blend over the lid with the smoky color of your choice, such as Night Divine. Smudge it at the lash line and pull it out into wings, following the arch of the bottom lash line upward. Create a cat-eye shape, but more blurred than the traditional ’50s liner style.

Line and blend into the crease with a darker color, such as Carbon.

Touch up with concealer under the eyes and edges to clean it up.

Outline and define the cat eye with black liquid liner.

Optional No. 1: Use a soft kohl eyeliner pencil to draw a thin line on the inside of your bottom lash line, aka your “water line.” Not under the lash line.

Optional No. 2: Apply a shimmery gloss in the middle of the lid, above the pupil, to make it shine. Mac’s eye gloss is a big seller this season, although I don’t like this runway trick because it made my eyes feel sticky and caused the shadow to crease.

Optional No. 3: Dab a light-colored frosty shadow color at your tear duct. This opens your eyes and pushes them apart. Note: If you are an obsessive eye toucher or your eyes water a lot, this will vanish before you put it on.

Optional No. 4: Throw on some limited Hello Kitty brand eyelashes, very unique looking lashes designed to accentuate the cat shape. Tip: Letting the eyelash glue dry a bit first assures they will stick better. Don’t over-glue it, either. You don’t need much.

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Napoleon once said there is only one step from the sublime to the ridiculous.

It must have been an Irish step.

My friend Lisa was an Irish step dancer for nine years. So obviously, with it being St. Patrick’s Day Week Month — yes, that’s how we Irish celebrate it (I am 0.004 percent Irish so I have deep pride) — I needed Lisa to teach me a jig.

Turns out, there’s a lot more to Riverdancing than just stomping, kicking with a pointed toe and bouncing your overcurled hair.

There’s also velvet. Oh, the velvet.

Yes, Irish dresses were obviously designed on a dare: (said with accent of Brad Pitt in “Snatch”) “I double dag dare you to move your bottom half as fast as possible while not moving your top half whatsoever — in a 40-pound sweaty velvet dress.”

With a cape. And rhinestones, satin embroidery and copper lame — as in “fabric woven with metallic threads,” and also as in “pathetically lacking” and, heck, probably also as in “drunk and unfit for service” (www.thefreedictionary.com). Then, in the middle of the dress: an embroidered design featuring an Irish dude smoking a doobie. With a fish.

I couldn’t even make this up if I were the dude smoking a doobie with a fish; this is Lisa’s competition dress.

Bridging the seemingly ridiculous back to the sublime was a little research. I learned the costumes evolved from women wearing their “Sunday best.” And the fish smoker represents an ancient legend of “The Salmon of Knowledge.” Although I couldn’t find any explanation for the joint; must have been embroidered in Boulder.

Still, a fly-by understanding of the Irish heritage did not help my feet during my fly-by step lesson. So, unwilling to wear velvet, ever, tradition notwithstanding, I needed another costume to compensate for my slow and mostly French feet.

That’s when I found Derailed Ink, www.derailedink.com. This T-shirt line, designed by two Fairview High School grads, began after the economy “derailed” their lives, per the name. But instead of getting run over, Rob Bell and John McCaskill used the momentum to carve a new path.

A DeRailed design.

If you went to a home Broncos game last season, you know them. They’re those loud, hyper and hilarious characters hawking T-shirts outside the stadium. They probably taunted you. You probably bought a shirt.

Because the shirts are legitimately cool. Much better than wearing the same generic jersey as every other 12-year-old and gangsta in the state. Bell, a contemporary artist, calls Derailed’s designs “instant vintage” or “retro nouveau,” the kind of shirts you could only find at Saver’s, except these are new and don’t smell like moth balls. The “Eddie Royal with Cheese” and “What would JC do?” (as in Jay Cutler, to which the proper response is “Throw an interception”) shirts even boast the original Bronco orange that I totally think the team should revert back to.

But before my boyfriend gets too excited that I am using the “f” word (football), here’s really why I dig Derailed Ink: Their fashion line — including an Irish “Lucky Charms Make You Fly” design.

The tees ($20 each) are all locally made and printed. Plus, they’re made from that soft, ultra thin cotton — much more ideal than velvet for Irish stepping. Or stomping and clomping, as it were.

Derailed Ink, available online and at Boulder’s Buffalo Exchange, also sells a shirt proclaiming, “It’s not the (the other “f” word in gerund form) ’80s.”

Which is true.

It’s the (f-word) ’90s. Fashion leaders across the world are resuscitating fluorescents, grunge, flannel, Docs and sleeveless sweatshirts.

My friend Brittany hates St. Patrick’s Day because of “all of that loud clapping and shouting.” But she does love her fluorescents.

In fact, her first fashion memory was of her fluorescent pink, orange and green swimming suit. She wore it everywhere: to church, school and, oh yeah, swimming, and one day, to the lake with her mom and her Snoopy fishing pole. That’s when Brittany’s mom read something horrifying in the Detroit paper.

“Fluorescents are out, dear.”

Initially, Brittany wanted to cry. But instead, she retorted, “So? I’m wearing them anyway,” and she did, until they resurfaced 15 years later. Granted, at the time, she had worn her fluorescent suit so much that it was actually pastel and fuzzy.

But still. That was the day Brittany learned the most important fashion lesson of all, incidentally another quote about the “ridiculous,” by Italian poet Giacomo Leopardi. And my justification for shunning stinky velvet dress in lieu of a breathable tee.

The quote: “People are ridiculous only when they try or seem to be that which they are not.”

Instead of step shoes this weekend, I’ll be stomping in my Docs. Celebrating the circle of fashion, and the Salmon of the Sublime and Ridiculous.

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

I am wearing Lisa’s black rocker jeans.

I borrowed them this weekend, which means I claim stake on them for at least another two weeks. It’s OK. Lisa has my white fur jacket, so we’re even.

And anyway, Molly has my jeans.

It’s amusing to watch the circulation of clothing among siblings and close friends — as long as those friends are not only children. Only children, raised without the constant threat of others in their closet, don’t understand the fluidity of possessions.

My mom had an at-home daycare, so I never owned anything. Clothes were constantly ebbing and flowing out of and into my closet; a wardrobe wave. So it’s a bit ill-fitting that two of my best friends today are only children.

I liked Brittany’s necklace, so I put it on. I would have probably worn it five times and returned it, naturally shedding five or six other accessories all over her apartment in the meantime. But when she saw me wearing her necklace, she tilted her ear to one side, like a dog trying to decipher a conversation but only recognizing one word. She knew I was not being deceptive or mean, but why was I jacking her stuff?

Loss is freedom. That’s what I tried to explain to her. And friend-borrowing is implied consensus; no contract or prenup necessary. In other words, as her best friend, her stuff is my stuff is her stuff. By letting go of what we have, we both end up with double. This extends beyond necklaces and into life in general.

Regardless of whether it comes back in one piece, the eventual return is what distinguishes borrowing from stealing, and anyway, it is impossible for friends or sisters to steal from each other due to the Law of Circulatory Clothing, which states, “Let she whose closet is without borrowed objects cast the first stone.”

My entire trunk is packed with O.P.P. (other people’s possessions) — some they forgot, some I borrowed. The exact means of acquisition is irrelevant. Instead, we live by klothing karma: For every dress I lend or lose, I will eventually acquire another. I consider my trunk an extended, mobile closet. I occasionally use the stuff — jackets, skirts, aprons, wigs, a blender (yes, Vanessa, I still have your blender) — but keep it on hand in case I run into that friend and either of us remembers that I have the item.

But be careful with your boundaries. Friendship or blood borrowing is not the same as neighbor or coworker borrowing.

While growing up, I had a neighbor who was a habitual borrower, driven by envy but trapped by cheapness. Whenever my family got something new — a car, trash can, lawn mower, garden spade or fishing pole — the dude asked if he could borrow it.

In this case, he should have just bought his own tent poles. His addiction to borrowing drove a wedge (or spade) through what sliver of fellowship he ever had with my dad. Taken to the extreme, you could probably borrow everything for life, never making purchases if you did it right.

Hmm, isn’t that the same concept of our credit-hungry society?

Big on borrowing? You can borrow (aka rent) the latest designer handbags, sunnies, watches and accessories at www.bagborroworsteal.com.

Then there is bartering. As we all go broke, Craisglist bartering ads have increased 100 percent in the past year, according to Best Public Relations. Two real bartering examples:

“My wife’s loud parrot for your Vespa.”

“Three plastic lawn flamingos (one with a bullet hole) for a good dog or alcohol.”

Consigning your clothes for in-store credit is another way to share, without screaming birds. You can buy and sell used goodies at the Amazing Garage Sale, a mega “garage sale” at 4919 N. Broadway in Boulder that has lasted 10 years (www.theamazinggaragesale.com). The founder of the store, Judi Lesta, lets customers take home items right away and make payments with no interest. Even pink flamingos.

Chairs from the Amazing Garage Sale.

Obviously, Lesta understands the “wardrobe wave.” In fact, she started the store after she sold all of her possessions to travel Spain for a year.

Talk about freedom in loss.

Now. Where are my purple cowboy boots? Anyone? I’ll trade you a pair of black rocker jeans and blender (without a bullet hole).

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

I have three white dresses, a black gown and a jacket that I didn’t really want and certainly couldn’t afford, but I now own.

You see, I tried — unsuccessfully — to join the cult of the beturners, folks who buy something with the explicit intention of using it one time and returning it. It’s part stealing, part retail-borrowing, and pure evil. We all know about beturning, but no one likes to talk about it.

The five flaws with beturning, as well as the barriers that keeps me safe from its tempting grasp, are as follows:

1. You cannot lose the receipt. (Bam, I am already doomed.)

2. You cannot squirt spaghetti sauce/cranberry juice/red wine on, say, your white dress(es).

3. You have to be willing to wear your clothes with itchy tags grinding on your armpits, and be willing to slither away in shame when someone sees said tags.

4. You must be versed in every store’s specific return policies. Remember this one. It will come into play when we talk about the “beturn block.”

5. You have to have no soul.

The only exception to No. 5 is the what I call the hurried beturn. You’re scrambling for an outfit because you are too important and busy to set aside proper shopping time, or you are a procrastinator. So you grab the first five things to try on at home, or in the car on your way to the fundraiser, and you plan on returning the four reject outfits.

That is how my boyfriend ended up with three pairs of black pants and four white button-ups. Late for fundraiser. What receipts?

I told him he should get a job as a waiter to pay for the unneeded items; after all, he’s now got the closet for it.

Some stores have more relaxed policies than others. For example, according to urban myth, you can beturn anything at Wal-Mart.

Here are three real-life examples of the Worst Beturns In History, Ever:

3. The hoses. It was the Fourth of July, and we wanted to fill up water balloons in the park. But parks don’t have spigots. So my friend bought about 25 garden hoses, hooked them together and attached them to the spigot at her house. She then carried the hose chain through the neighborhood, across busy streets and to the park. As the tale goes, when she beturned them, they were dripping water and were covered in fresh tire tracks. Wal-Mart didn’t flinch.

2. The carpet cleaner. Judy (name changed to protect the guilty) had a carpet cleaner. Her carpet cleaner quit working, but she had thrown the box away. So she bought another carpet cleaner. She put the old carpet cleaner in the new box, and used the new receipt to beturn it. Wal-Mart didn’t flinch.

1. The snake. I can’t bring myself to tell this story in full sentences, so here goes my best staccato effort. Toilet. Clogged. Home Depot. Plumber’s snake, aka electric eel. Unclogged. Snake in a box. Snake back on the shelf. Poor Home Depot.

There is yet another kind of beturning: the beturn block.

Brittany was checking out at Forever 21 when she noticed the sales associate had accidentally scanned a nearby yellow striped shirt and placed it in Brittany’s bag.

“Oh, that shirt wasn’t mine,” Brittany explained.

She was shocked by the associate’s response: “Yes, it was. It was in your pile.”

Brittany explained that it must have already been on the counter or somehow got into the mix, but she really did not want it. The woman said, “It was in your pile.” The fight raged on.

“No. I don’t want it. It’s ugly and not even my size.”

“Well, I’m sorry, but we don’t take returns.”

“What? This is not a return. I never wanted it.”

“We don’t take returns, ma’am.”

“Let me see your manager.”

Manager: “What is the problem?”

“She accidentally charged me for this shirt that I don’t want.”

“Well, our computers cannot return anything. Sorry.”

I suggested Brittany just beturn the shirt to Wal-Mart. Even with Forever 21 tags and no receipt, I’m sure the Mart would take it. I mean, this one wasn’t even run over or dunked in a toilet. It was Wal-Mart’s turn to benefit.

Got a soul? Does the mere mention of beturning fill you with self-righteous rage? Here are two fashion-forward and socially responsible shopping options for you:

We Are Overlooked, (www.weareoverlooked.com) designs cool T-shirts to promote and raise money for humanitarian causes around the globe. One black tee reads in white scribble letters: “This shirt feeds starving children.” For $20, every shirt sold provides one person with a meal a day for one month.

We Are Overlooked even takes on the uncomfortable topic of child trafficking. A gray shirt has a Dr. Seuss-esque child locked in a cage, with the words, “Because some things were never meant to be caged.”

The company also features a shirt to raise money for mosquito nets on April 15, World Malaria Day.

Annie O (www.annieoboutique.com) is a Boulder-based biz that works with needy artists in Peru to sell adorable belts, bags and accessories that are inspired by traditional embroidery techniques. Annie O is fair-trade and supports women who are victims of domestic violence.

The products are available in about 22 boutiques around the country. The colorful belts are hand-embroidered out of sheep wool, with horn buckles. They look great on top of a summery dress.

Plus, all of the products have a story behind them — and not one of these stories involves an electric eel.

Start Slide Show with PicLens Lite

Because I refuse to force upon you yet another fashion column attempting to cleverly announce that “green is the new black” (where ever do newspapers find this kind of originality?), I’m going to do this Earth Day thing a little differently. It will start with an excerpt from a story I wrote when I was 9.

Swoosh goes the sound of the water around Leah’s ears as she spins, deeper and deeper, into the pipes under the school building. Let’s back up an hour. A bunch of kids were gathered after school for noodle making. (Adult interjection: No clue what “noodle making” means.)

A little while later is when Leah had to go to the bathroom. She went to the bathroom near the fourth-grade classroom, near the closet where Mrs. Quinn keeps the prizes for her Uncle Rodney’s Box contest. Leah was in the bathroom when, oh no, she accidentally dropped her ring in the toilet. It was the ring she had won in last week’s Uncle Rodney’s Box contest! (Adult interjection: Sorry about the exclamation mark, and several more to come.)

She had to get it. She

closed her big eyes and reached, down, down, down, and then –

Swoosh! The force pulled her hand under, and then her shoulder and head. Then her feet were sticking up in the

air until her whole body was going down the pipes!

Everything was wet and a blur until –

Thud! She landed in a pile of trash. Junk was everywhere in huge piles. Broken cars were upside down and the sky was black with pollution. There were no trees, grass, horses, birds or anything alive. Everything was smelly.

“Welcome to Earth 2,” she heard a small voice say. She looked down to find a worm at her feet.

“What is Earth 2?” Leah asked in fear.

“This is how the Earth will look in the future if no one takes care of it. Everyone killed each other and destroyed everything. There is nothing left except me. And now you,” said the worm.

“What…” Leah started to ask a question but the worm interrupted.

“No time for questions except one: What are you going to do about it?”

Ah, yes. Earth 2. When little Aimee wrote this story from the top of a tree in my parents’ backyard in Loveland, it was long before it was trendy to be green. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was more interested what might happen if I got sucked down the toilet than making a political statement about what might happen if our environment went down the tubes.

Still. It seems like the perfect story to remind us to pay our Earth Day dues. (As if we could forget; during the new “Earth Hour” a few weeks ago, I was out for a fancy dinner when the restaurant shut off all the lights. I think they cooked my steak by rubbing sticks together.)

Because it’s the right thing to do, and also because I tend to drop objects in my toilet once a week, here are my top five Earthy fashion tips to help keep the Earth 2 worms at bay:

1. Edressme.com– This is an online dress retailer that sells duds made from biodegradable, organic materials. From today through Earth Day, this site will offer 20 percent off brands, such as Trinity, Dresses by Kate and Synergy Organic.

2. Being an eco-diva goes beyond simply respecting Mama Earth; you also need to love your sisters. All month, in celebration of Earth Day, the lucy store at the Twenty Ninth Street Mall in Boulder invites women to trade their used exercise pants for $10 off regular-priced lucy bottoms. Lucy will donate the old pants to a local charity. For more info, check out www.lucy.com.

3. Share your hair — On Earth Day, the Crazy Horse 2 Salon will be holding a “Hair-Raising” hair-cutting event to collect donated hair to be made into free wigs for cancer patients.

Erika Carlson, 34, came up with the idea in memory of her sister, who fought breast cancer for three years. Then, shortly after Carlson began organizing the event, she was diagnosed with breast cancer herself. She had a full mastectomy on March 16, and recently begun chemotherapy.

The clipped ponytails (at least 8 inches long) will be donated to the Pantene Beautiful Lengths nonprofit. The Crazy Horse, which opened 20 years ago in downtown Louisville, will offer free haircuts to donors. For more info or to make an appointment, call 303-666-5802 or visit http://hairraising.livelymarketing.com.

4. If your ponytail is too short, your hair can still be your philanthropy. On April 26, Chicago Hair Salon, 4550 Broadway St. in Boulder, will be doing cuts for $40. All of the money that day will be donated to buy new clothes for children entering the social services system.

The idea came from one of the salon’s clients, who works for social services, and said many children arrive with only the clothes on their backs. The event hopes the new clothes symbolize the start to a new life. For more info, call the salon at 303-442-1690.

5. OK, so your hair is too short and you don’t need a haircut. I’m not taking any excuses this week. Everyone likes to shop. Tough Lucky Cowboy, 2050 Broadway in Boulder, is having a hoe-down to celebrate the owner’s recent cancer scare.

On Saturday, 20 percent of the sales will go to There With Care, a nonprofit that supports children and families with critical illnesses. The store will offer special discounts on “things that are just too dang expensive at the regular price,” a raffle for Ryan Michael shirts, beer and bubbles and cake (a magical trifecta) and a showing of new Boulder-made Sweet Bird jewelry designs.

I might swing by to see if Sweet Bird has any rings. I’m looking for a backup, you know, in case my “Uncle Rodney Box contest” ring makes any unfortunate plunges.