By Paula Moore
Who says television isn't educational? For the past five years, TV has been helping me get dressed in the morning. When I go shopping for clothes, one simple phrase guides me: "What would Lorelai wear?" I mean Lorelai Gilmore, the fast-talking single mom from the recently canceled CW show Gilmore Girls. R.I.P, Lorelai. And your cute hoodies too.
There was a time when I didn't rely on TV characters to dress myself. When I was in high school, my inspiration came from the punk kids I saw hanging out at clubs in D.C. I was as cute as a skull-shaped button, running around town with black and blue hair and wearing leather dog collars. I spent hours spiking my hair just so while considering which babydoll-dress-and-combat-boot combination to don that day.
Things started to change after I got out of college and became a vegan. Let me correct that: I became a veganista, the type of vegan who gives other vegans a bad rep. It wasn't so much that I was an obsessive label-reader; no bone-charred sugar for me!; or that I proselyelytized on the evils of eating meat. It was worse. Somehow, in my zeal to live a healthy, organic lifestyle, I started dressing like an organic farmer.
Let me clarify: Most of the vegans I know are quite chic. Creative labels like Stella McCartney and Matt & Nat are making such stylish synthetics, even carnivores crave them. You can walk into almost any mall and come out with an armful of trendy vegan clothes and accessories; Loop bags, Unlisted ffootwear, not to mention an array of faux-fur-trimmed hoodies and coats.
But that's not the route I took.
"When did I join the Hemp Brigade?" I asked myself one day as I stared in disbelief at my beige cotton pants and plain canvas shoes. More importantly, I thought, "How can I fix this?"
I couldn't go back to my punk days. For one thing, I no longer had the inclination to accessorize every outfit with studded leather belts or the patience to work egg whites into my hair to force it to defy gravity. Besides, as a vegan, eggs were now verboten. Ditto leather.
But this hemp-farmer look wasn't working. My inner fashionista was putting her canvas-clad foot down.
I was pondering my dilemma one night while sitting on the sofa watching Gilmore Girls. "That's a cute top Lorelai's wearing," I thought, noticing the chic pink blouse that the 30-something TV mom had on. "Her skirt's pretty too."
Eureka.
The next time I went shopping, I tried an experiment. It didn't matter what I would wear; what would Lorelai wear?
"That's a cute shirt," my friend Liz said when I wore my first Lorelai pick to work. I had chosen a slim-fitting black rayon blouse adorned with small red and white flowers.
Emboldened by this success, I continued my experiment on future shopping trips. When something caught my eye, I asked myself, "Would Lorelai wear this?" If the answer was yes, I tried it on. If it was no, I left it on the rack. Using the Lorelai method, I slowly built a wardrobe that any Gilmore girl would be proud of. The plaid shirts have been replaced by lacy camisoles and jewel-colored blouses. The painter's pants were tossed to make room for skinny black pants. The canvas shoes? Think black, stacked Mary Janes with sassy silver buckles. They're pleather; not leather;
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