Every Girl's (and Security Guard) Crazy 'Bout a Sharp Dressed Man

Whether or not you believe that the suit makes the man or the man makes the suit, it's worth noting that the suit can be your get-out-of-jail-for-free card. Last week Wednesday, Ronald Tackman, a career criminal decided to bring his sartorial A-game to the next level. A level your Style Therapist didn't even know existed. He escaped from the Manhattan Criminal Court Building by assuming the role of a sharply dressed attorney. He was so convincing a court officer even asked, "Counselor, what are you doing here?"

For all you naysayers out there who still don't believe how you're dressed counts for something, enjoy your pitiful existence in your stained college sweatshirt and crumpled corduroy blazer with elbow patches falling off. Yes, Susie Dirtyshirt of Kalamazoo, Michigan. I'm talking to you! How many sweatshirts can one person own? Don't think you're off the hook Professor Ian Messy of Park Slope. You've been sporting the same tired tenured tuxedo (corduroy blazer and matching slacks) for far too long now. You think it's beneath your intellect to care about your appearance, yet you spend a good 15 minutes disarranging your hair to give it that unkempt, "I care about more cerebral things" effect. By default, you're not better than the rest of us in terms of self-branding, or you would have cut off that bird's nest a long time ago.

Despite my tiny tangent, I hope everyone realizes the importance of putting a bit of effort into appearance and carriage. I'm not condoning Mr. Tackman's behavior, but I must give credit where it's due. Clothing counts and the sooner we get our arithmetic together, the sooner we can escape the imprisonment of stale style.

Read more at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/09/30/ronald-tackman-escapes-ca_n_304761.html

Read more at: http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/09/30/ronald-tackman-escapes-ca_n_304761.html

When You Take A Picture of Yourself...

My beautiful people, when you take a picture of yourself, please remember to crop your arm out of the picture. We've all taken personal snapshots for either a laugh or do to sheer boredom. But I would argue that at times, self-picture-taking is akin to talking to yourself; but that's not what this post's about. We're talking about self-branding.

I can't tell you how many Facebook profiles contain a large batch of people either snapping themselves in the mirror (the lowest of the low) or stretching out their arms and quickly taking a shot. In both cases, the subject can come across as being vain. Whether you are or not is beside the point. Others have taken pictures, with camera in full-view, of an outfit or haircut they thought was cute. Ain't no shame in that game. If you think you're cute, document it. But you lose cool points for doing it yourself...or at least clearly showing to the world that you're doing it yourself.

We live in a time of digital cameras. We're able to easily set these on timers, run to our spot, and make it look like a friend or loved one was so enamored of us that they had to take a picture straight away. But when you've got the camera in plain view? (Shaking head)

Come on beautiful people. Let's get ourselves together and stop being so obvious about it. Until we do have that friend or loved one at hand to snap a picture, set that timer! And if you can't set the timer, crop your arm out of the picture!

Phyllis Hyman: Accentuate The Body You Have

Happy New Year beautiful people! It's 2009 and it's time to stop looking like a sweltering, hot mess. I can't begin to stress how many people have said they won't do a CLOSET DETOX because they have to lose a few more pounds. But an even more egregious type of behavior is trying to conceal what's obvious. We can diminish a paunch with a billowy blouse or play-up an A-cup with chicken cutlets, but there are some things that can't be changed, so let's embrace them.

Phyllis Hyman, the late, underrated singer who left us too soon, understood this. At 6'2" in heels, she was no shrinking violet. In addition to her heels, she wore towering crowns, huge chandelier earrings, and was a friend to the plunging neckline. As a plus-size woman, she also understood the concept of scale. Her clothing and accessories were on a grand scale because she, herself, was larger than life. Dainty diamond studs and a tiny string of pearls would have been lost on this Amazonian diva. And a woman with a petite frame would be overwhelmed by the pieces Ms. Hyman was able to pull off.

Embrace your body now. Dress the body you have NOW! NOW! NOW! And dress it well. No excuses! New mommies, I know your bodies are changing. Weight fluctuation, different cup sizes, elastic-waist pants—you have it rough, because you got a new body practically overnight. But I continue to stress, don't put yourself or your style on the back burner. You buy your baby new clothes and give them several costume changes during the course of the day. You're still in your crummy sweatshirt from last week. Is that fair to you? Play up your new assets and if you want to get back to your original body, inject your wardrobe with some good transitional pieces.

If you think you're too short, too tall, too fat, or too skinny—get over it! Learn to play it up and as always, bring your A-game! Remember my story of the little girl with the fake toes? If she was bringing her A-game at age 8, there's no reason why you have all twenty of your digits and you're not bringing it at 30.

Smell Ya Later

Hey Mister, looking good. You know it, too...but I can smell you. You're waaaaaaaaaay over there and I'm waaaaaaaay over here.

Listen gents, as a Style Therapist I can really appreciate you taking the time to bring your A-game. But does this attention to detail HAVE to involve so much cologne? My nostrils are on fire and my eyes are watering. It's not even that your Eau de Homme smells bad, there's simply too much of it on your body. Take it easy for the public's sake...please!

We can still smell you 10 minutes after you've left the building. I know what you do, too. You lay your outfit on the bed and spritz the cologne all over—front AND back. In your mind, this is the subtle way to get your scent out into the atmosphere. But you don't stop there. You put it in your hair, on your neck, the palms of your hand—you refuse to leave any molecule unbathed in your special spice.

Please give the public's olfactory nerves a break. Your cologne seeps into our skin, attaches itself to our hair, our couches, car seats and any other surface that absorbs odors. My advice is to spritz in the air and run through the mist. That way only someone close enough to whisper can smell you. You're more appealing and mysterious that way. While you may be suffering from colognism, it's manageable disease. And in some cases, I've known it to be cured.

Wrapped Hair is Not An Actual Style

I suppose I'm on a roll when it comes to this decorum stuff. I get easily riled up. This message is directed towards a select few. There is a type of woman who likes to be seen on the street with her hair wrapped and covered in bobby pins. Usually, the young woman goes to the hair salon and instead of having her hair styled like a normal person, she asks her stylist to wrap her hair up and secure them with the pins. Think of it as leaving the salon with your hair in rollers. They're both on the same level.

If the said woman was to go directly from the salon to her house, there would be very little harm, very little foul. I can't say with confidence no harm, no foul because she's still out in public not bringing her A-game. However, if the windows in her car are tinted, almost no one will see her. When I used to straighen my hair, I wrapped it all of the time in order to keep the frizzies away. On the rare occasion, your Style Therapist would indulge in semi-public wrapped hair...but only if I was going straight into a car and then a house. No, I was not bringing my A-game. Plus, that was before my Style Therapy training. But some women brazenly walk about town as if it were an a legitimate hairstyle.

I remember during my undergrad days, the occasional student would show up to class with this dreadful look. It's become so accepted that some women run their errands with the wrapped hair. They're on the subway, walking down the street, and engaging in regular public life. What does that say about them exactly? Why stop with the bobby pins? Why not come out in fuzzy house slippers and drawers.

Style Therapy is about bringing your A-game—always. I'm not necessarily referring to high-end, fashion forward looks. That's not for everyone. I'm talking about clean and fitted in your signature style. When you present yourself to the world, practically in rollers, you're shouting out that you don't care about yourself or what people think about you. That's not the makings of a rebel or maverick, but a slob...and a damn fool.

Best Dressed Video: Part I

My Feet Keep Dancing - Chic - Some of you are too young to remember words like panache and pizzazz. I pretend to be old enough to remember such words. Forget about consulting Webster's for definitions. This group personifies positive "P" words like no other. There's absolutely nothing better than a bass player in a bespoke suit! RIP Bernard Edwards.

You Learn Something New Everyday

I always assumed Mr. T was born with those gold chains attached to his neck. But with a bit of research (read: a quick stop by Wikipedia), I came out with a new found respect for the man who brilliantly portrayed Rocky III nemesis, Clubber Lang and tough guy B.A. Baracus on The A Team.

Back in the 1970s, the man we would come to know as Mr. T (né Laurence Tureaud) was a bouncer in his hometown of Chicago. If a bar patron lost a piece of jewelry due to carelessness or as the result of a fight, he would simply wear the chain around his neck until the owner came back to reclaim it. Usually, the customers failed to return; thus creating the world renowned gold chain heap we know today.

One day, while reading an issue of National Geographic, Mr. T stumbled across an image of Mandinka warriors. He was taken by their hairstyle and appropriated the look for himself. As his jewelry collection soared to a value of $300,000, this was a safer, less labor-intensive alternative—Mr. T had spent hours were spent placing the chains around his neck. He would also sleep in the bulky chains to get a sense of what it must have been like for ancestors who were slaves. However, after seeing the devestating aftermath of Hurricane Katrina, he decided to forego his trademark jewelry.

Mr. T remains an indelible icon of the 80s. With his uniform of fatigued pants and denim jackets with sawed off sleeves, he was aware of his image and took a proactive role in creating it. Dirk Benedict, as Face, may have been the hotty of the show, it was Mr. T who left the biggest mark.

Keeping It Casual?

When I entered the workforce at the turn of this century, my first job was at a major book publishing house. Jeans weren't permitted during the week, but we could wear them on what was known as Casual Friday. A couple of years later I landed a spot at an advertising agency with a relatively conservative dress code. A code, by the way, that was strictly enforced. Forget Fridays, jeans weren't tolerated on any day of the week; much less t-shirts, open-toed shoes, flip flops, or sneakers. Casual Friday wasn't in the company lexicon and violators would be sent home to change-whether you lived in Park Slope or Parsippany.

I'd attended a prep school from grade six through senior year, so I was used to regulated dressing. If a girl's skirt wasn't grazing her knees, she was called into the guidance counselor's office. She would then be given an embarrassingly long skirt from a collection kept in the administrator's office. While we wore ghastly navy uniforms in polyester, we still knew ugly when we saw it. These loaner skirts were akin to something the wife (or wives) of a religious cult leader might wear today. They had been worn so often that the color had faded, clashing with the matching polyester navy vests we also had to wear. It would have behooved the offending girl to have worn the proper skirt to begin with.

With the exception of four years of sartorial freedom at university, most of my life, up to the point of the advertising job, included some by-the-book standard of dress. While the agency was a more creative atmosphere than a law firm or financial institution, it was still very much corporate.

Then came the town hall meeting. When the head of our company retired, the new boss held an assembly where the direction of the company was announced. When the floor was opened for questions, a young man asked (at the top of his lungs) if we'd be allowed to wear jeans. Our new chief said, "I don't see why not."

The flood gates opened wide. Anything that was forbidden before appeared overnight. Grey New Balance trainers seemed to have grown on everyone's feet like moss. And jeans accompanied them beautifully; in particular, the ones of the feline variety with whiskers. Oddly enough, it was the men who favored distressed denim the most. And for those who weren't fond of sneakers, the jeans would inevitably be paired with latter-day Jeromey Rome style dress shoes.

The women were no angels. One art director took the mullet principle of "business on top, party on the bottom" and applied it to her work uniform. The term uniform is used deliberately. She never deviated from her quite tight button down oxford, black mini skirt, and towering black patent stilettos.

With the lax rules in dressing came a Romper Room atmosphere. Scooters became the mode of transport for some, and with that zipping and zooming came louder chatter and outrageous chotckes on desks (myself included). A stock photo house sent us enormous posters of their latest offerings. A coworker took one of Mexican actor Gael Garcia Bernal and had it lamenated and mounted. I kept it on my desk until I left.

A couple of years later, when I worked in the design department of a contemporary clothing firm, I'd often buy new pieces from our line. While walking to work one morning, I saw a young woman wearing a shirt I'd purchased not too long before. It was definitely a shirt because it was merchandised with the other tops in the flagship store. On this particular day, the coworker, who I had never met before, was wearing it as a dress! It barely covered her cheeks. I'm assuming she stood on the subway ride on the way over.

She accessorized with a chain-link belt in gold and patent heels. I've already got prudish, granny tendencies, but for me, that was over the top. Not too long after that, a twenty-something female stopped by for a job interview. She was wearing what would have been a flesh-colored suit had she not OD'd on the spray tan. The young candidate also wore matching, nude patent platform heels. Her hemline, too, also barely covered her cheeks. The top button of her blazer was unfastened, allowing for a generous amount of cleavage.

When I started Stanton + Williams Style Therapy, I had no intention of consulting corporate clients. I wanted to keep it private; but it was instances like those two that made me reconsider. Nowadays a lot of companies don't have dress codes on the books. And if they do, they're not enforced. It's hard to reprimand someone for dressing inappropriately if they've never been taught. These two young ladies were on the younger side and had probably never worked for companies with a conservative corporate culture.

My message to the employees and the companies isn't, "Don't wear this, wear that." I want people to understand the power of clothing. We form judgments of each other within seconds, solely based on what we're wearing. It's imperative that we know what message we may be sending when we leave our apartments either looking like a hot mess, a fashion victim, or a paid escort. It was Chanel herself who said, "Dress shabbily and they remember the dress. Dress impeccably and they remember the woman."

Style Therapy By Mr. T

If I had to go on holiday for a week and leave someone in charge of Stanton + Williams Style Therapy, it would be Mr. T. Click here to see why.

Style Therapy Rule # 2: Do Not Let Your Cousin Style You

This message is directed to all of you young Hollywood up and comers. It's commendable that you want to help your cousin Peaches get more exposure as a stylist, but sometimes it's best not let him style you for big events. That "deconstructed" cocktail dress he had you wear to your last premiere? He claimed the raw edges were reminiscent of conceptual designers, like Margiela or Rick Owens. The fact is that Cousin Peaches ran out of time and gave you his masterpiece as is.

Your last picture did fairly well at the box office and the makers of an over-the-counter zit remedy is interested in you for their next infomercial. You're going places and you need to look the part. Why are you even listening to Peaches? He's had far too many collagen injections. He's got Wanda (from In Living Color) lips. He insists on being a tragic fashion stereotype and he's trying to bring you down to Clueless Town with him. A two-year subscription to Us Weekly does not a fashion stylist make.

Cousin Peaches insists he doesn't pay any mind to the fashion shows because he likes to be organically inspired. In reality he's still using a dial-up modem and the pages of each designer collection simply take too long to load on his computer.

If you're unable to afford a Rachel Zoe, your publicist should be cultivating relationships with design houses so you're able to get items on loan. It wouldn't hurt to give your hairstylist mom the pink slip either. She's a wonderful woman with a big heart, but she's more adept at giving blue rinses to the seniors from the retirement community in your old neighborhood than giving Sally Hershberger a run for her money. And while you're in the midst of doing lay-offs, let's not leave out your brother's longtime girlfriend. When she started doing your makeup in the mall 5 years ago, you were at a different stage in your life. For one, you were in high school and had yet to develop your taste. Now the paps are shooting you from all angles, even on off-days during a Starbucks run. But when you have a red carpet event and your makeup "artist" insists on making you look like a corpse going to the club, it's time to reconsider your entourage.

They're going to tell you that you've changed since you've become a big star and that you need to keep family close. Tune them out. The more successful you get, the bigger the perks are for them. You can refer your nemesis to Cousin Peaches, get work on a horror film for the brother's girlfriend, and send your mother to Florida for early retirement. They have absolutely nothing to complain about. You're helping them by helping yourself.