Kate Middleton needs a radical haircut—and other style tips for the princess-to-be.

Notes from the fashion apocalypse.
Nov. 24 2010 2:06 PM

Off With Her Hair!

Kate Middleton needs a radical haircut—and other style tips for the princess-to-be.

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And speaking of foundation garments, who should design Kate's vampy wedding frock? I propose fellow brunette Victoria Beckham. This is her sixth season designing entrance-making cocktail frocks, and she has repeatedly demonstrated the requisite szooshing and draping skills for a wedding gown. VB can also give Kate firsthand tips on how to deal with fame, fluctuating popularity, and the ire of jealous women. (Female soccer fans regularly chant, "Posh Spice takes it up the Arsenal" at Mrs. B. when she is out shopping on Bond Street. Charmed, I'm sure!)

Kate's principal beacon of inspiration should, of course, be the queen herself. OK, so those matching-dress-and-coat sets are not exactly le dernier cri, but, you must admit, the reigning monarch is one seriously unstoppable broad. She has never wavered, gone on Oprah, or descended into mawkish sentimentality of any kind. Having successfully kept her shit together—and the Furies at bay—for over 58 years, she understands that noblesse is not a popularity contest or a media opportunity. Could she give a rat's ass what Grazia magazine says about her? I think not.

Rat's asses aside, I am feeling optimistic about Kate. She, like me and Posh, is a commoner and therefore much smarter than the average inbred aristo. Her documented ability to endure nicknames speaks to a promising resilience: She and her sister Pippa were dubbed "The Wisteria Sisters" by Wills' claque. (Geddit? They are fragrant, lovely, and good at climbing.) The same snooty toffs also referred to Kate as "Doors-to-manual," a snarky nod to her mother's career as a flight attendant. Her staying power then earned her the name "Waity Katy." (Upper-class Brits, as you probably can tell, love a nickname almost as much as the Furies love an archetype.)

In conclusion, let me express one final concern: I am crossing my fingers that the future Mrs. Willy Windsor does not elect to get plumped. Though pretty and perfectly acceptable to moi, her top lip is, by contemporary trout-pout standards, a little on the thin side. Will she succumb to this nasty fad, or will her lip go unplumped? The Furies and I are taking bets.

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