You know it's Envision fashion show time when shins are covered and sternums are not. And I am there to
get up in people's business document it. See above.
Actually, I was a little distressed to observe that, in eight young female brains out of ten, the words fashion show are admitted up in Optical by a dyspeptic in a dead-end relationship, handed off to Megan, Megan R. with the shihtzu, in Cerebral Cortex, and after she "processes," read: coughs on, them, fashion is shunted to the large intestine and its inevitable end, while show travels to the fingertips which experience an itchy sensation every time they come in contact with either a crotch-length bit of poly/lycra from Wet Seal or shiny plastic fake Louboutins that can double as car jacks. The only way to relieve the itching is to out with the credit card. Hooker happens.
But not in this case.
On the left, is a flowy blowy great excuse to exfoliate your solar plexus. She got it at Akira in Chicago, along with everything else in her wardrobe up to and including her hair -- whoa, blowout sale! She is obsessed with Akira. Which is fine with me.
Her friend, Red, is 110% Calvin Klein but hipper because she got it in LA. Neither of them actually has cartoon yellow skin -- camera error may or may not be at fault. I like these women because they're saying Let's get this party started, rather than This party is going to cost you $12.95 for an hour.