CLOTHES-MINDED ABOUT BRANGELINA’S BABY

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

A bunch of folks are having a conniption over a certain oft-photographed celebrity’s unconventional fashion choices. “Appalling!” they crow. “Why can’t she dress like a NORMAL girl?” they caw.

Who could “she” be? Lady Gaga? Kristen Stewart? Serena Williams? No, no, no and no.

Despite having her face plastered all over websites, magazines, tabloids and newspapers around the world, this star hasn’t had a hit song, starred in any blockbuster movies, or won an international sports championship. In fact, this blonde beauty is probably just beginning to master the fine art of coloring inside the lines. (No, it’s not Paris or Britney, either.)

Meet Shiloh Jolie-Pitt, gender-bending, tomboy-chic fashionista … and thumb-sucking 4-year-old. Spawned from the two-headed entity known as Brangelina, little Shiloh is making headlines with her short-cropped locks and preference for britches over ball gowns. According to Mama Jolie, the tot “dresses like a little dude … she likes track suits, she likes regular suits. She likes to dress like a boy.”

So what’s the big deal about a little girl who likes pants and button-down shirts? No doubt it’s Jolie’s follow-up comment that “she wants to be a boy. So we had to cut her hair. She thinks she's one of the brothers."

I repeat, “What’s the big deal?”

Maybe it’s that the idea that a child so young adamantly refuses to conform to traditional gender roles. Perhaps it’s the notion that her parents are comfortable with and accepting of her choices. Or maybe the thought that Shiloh’s male-identified persona might not change as she grows up brings out people’s fears about their own children.

When I was Shiloh’s age, I, too, wanted to be a boy. Like her, I grew up with two older brothers whom I idolized and imitated. Had I been dolled up in some frilly nonsense, there’s no way I could have executed an effective knee-drop while playing “Big-Time Wrestling.” Plus, I envied my brothers’ never having to run home from the playground to answer a call of nature. (My attempts to imitate them in that respect were less successful.)

Yeah, I wanted to be a boy. I also wanted to be a Muppet and one of the Supremes. Four-year-olds are barely beginning to identify as humans, much less grapple with gender identity.

We have no idea who this preschooler will be as she matures – a diehard tomboy or a hearts-and-flowers girly-girl. And if she DOES turn out to be transgender, like Cher’s daughter, Chastity, who’s now her son named Chaz, I say better an alive, well-adjusted man with loving, accepting parents than a self-hating woman who, worst-case scenario, finds life not worth living.

Shiloh’s apparel won’t change the fact that her parents see her as “one of the goofiest, most playful people you’ll ever meet” instead of just a haircut and boy’s clothing. If anything, she’ll grow up to be charismatic and independent-minded, instead of just another brick in the wall, so hey, people … leave the kid alone.

COLOR ME ...

BY BELINDA M. PASCHAL

With the recent upturn in temperatures, I’ve been on a quest for a reasonably priced spring jacket, something stylish but not too trendy and featuring enough pockets to serve as sort of a wearable purse. As I’m notorious for my hatred of shopping –which, along with my disdain for purse-toting, puts me in danger of having my Ladies’ Club membership revoked – I’ve been cruising the online clothing circuit. I guess you could say I’m doing a little Windows-shopping. (Ha! See what I did there?)

Because I’m just enough of a girl that I wouldn’t be caught dead in a jacket that conflicts with the rest of my ensemble, I’m looking for something in a neutral tone, preferably on the lighter end of the brown spectrum. One would think this would be a relatively simple search. One would be grossly mistaken.

What I found was a baffling array of choices – none of them accompanied by examples – like Chamois, Flax, String, Oakleaf and Pearl Bisque. (String?! Really?) Whatever happened to good ol’ lower-case khaki, beige or just plain tan?! Now, I understand trying to make colors more attractive-sounding, and I can figure out what Sand, Camel, Toast and Café-Au-Lait look like, but Praline Cream, Barley, Oatmeal and Biscuit?

Distracted by these undecipherable names (and a sudden craving for breakfast food), I forgot about shopping and got lost in a sea of Delicacy and Fatigue – not states of mind, but colors in the Chico’s catalog. Another site offers items in the color of Mud, which is about as clear as … well, its name, since one puddle of wet dirt can look different from the next.

Silly me, I always thought brown just came in light, medium and dark, but apparently, it also can be Havana, Aztec, Cordial, Hacienda and California Gold, the last of which I’m pretty sure is an illegal substance.

Seriously, I get it. I realize manufacturers can’t call ‘em as they see ‘em because who’d want to buy anything offered in Jaundice, Gaping Head Wound Red or Strained-Carrot Baby Barf? And I shouldn’t complain because it could be worse. Though I have no idea what Plumbago, Slurple and Haze look like, I’d be more likely to put them on my body than such Tudor-Era shades as Dead Spaniard, Goose-Turd and Blod (I don’t even want to know).

I did enjoy the color wordplay on an automotive website – Anti-Establish Mint, Last Stand Custard, There She Blue – and was thankful to find no cars offered in Gang Green, Salmon ‘Nilla or Pierced Navel Orange. (Though I AM lobbying for I Cannot Tell A Lilac.)

Paint-job possibilities aside, this catchy-naming trend has gotten out of control. What’s the world coming to when there’s a selection of more than a dozen names for what most of us know as black? I give up. Until someone invents a color decoder ring, I’m sticking to Fisher-Price products, where the colors come in primary red, blue and yellow.