Designer Hair Skirt; Which Sign?

i think the problem is with the tailored jacket combo. skirt pure genius.

I’m constantly dazzled by the wisdom of Mystic!!! You are so so right ALL the time. I love the lower Pisves description, spot on. Love the new look too.

Delilah – made up name, she is Shaz from Wogga – is a Gemini and she lies about having gone to PLC. She is a secretary who spent the early 90s shagging her boss in various Asian resorts and has never gotten over the “elite”
thing.
She is unversed in art, literature, humanities, has no flair whatsoever. She would get this skirt and wear it badly, would have got the couch if hubby hadn’t sunk so abysmally in the latest big bank blood lettings.
SHe thinks everyone fancies her and boasts constantly about her figure and apparent accomplishments. Shrill little harpie bitch pretender. No true charm. Anyone who uses the word “intellectual” with “fashion” is missing it. But it sums up Delilah. Yes she does look younger as she gets older, that’s gemini with capricorn for you, but the only thing she regrets with age is that she can no longer do shifts at the local knockshop when she feels like it.

No. you’re all suffering from identity confusion. Her name is Ophelia Hirsute and she was born on 26th May 1977. She was born at Surfer’s Paradise soon after dawn so has her Sun and Jupiter rising in her 1st in opposition to Sagg Neptune in 7th. She was a bright and beautiful little girl and excelled academically developing into a tall slim gifted media studies graduate. She has Venus and Mars in conjunction in her 11th opposing Pluto in her 5th so found in her teens that men were her playthings and with Neptune in 7th could create an illusion of fidelity. Using her skills she won the heart of a bald millionaire property developer and became his PA organising all his social calandar. He was absolutely phobic about his lack of hair so wore a very expensive hair piece always. Her Saturn is in Leo so she was determined to shine. With Mercury in Taurus she was skilled at running classy events where the food and ambiance delighted everyone. Being a low Gemini she began thinking she could do anything she wanted to. She cast her eyes around for an even bigger fish and landed a rival property developer and the bald one caught her pashing him at the Magic Millions dinner. He sacked her on the spot humiliating her in front of the IN crowd. This outfit was her choice to wear to the next gala event with the new property developer knowing that the bald one would attend and all who attended would realise she was insulting him. Her Uranus in Scorpio and Pluto in 5th had been satisfied and her desire for revenge, but stylishly.

HAHAHAHAHA

Yes Leila went to Bali and lived in Ubud for a while. She had a fling with a local for a few days and got advice from Ketut the local medicine man. But the heat and dirt and poverty all got too much so she only lasted there 3 weeks… but it still inspires here when she feels a bit empty and over it all.

She has a small altar she bought at denpasar airport which she burns rose musk incense on when she remembers and she bought loads of cheap printed balinese fabric there which she had made up into the skirt (above the horrendous hair.)

This is the funniest thread I’ve read in a long time.

Here’s my take. Born in 1968 to parents who subsequently became Rajneeshi devotees, she was christened Jennifer Ball, but renamed Kali in the mid-seventies when the orange people got hold of her parents. She rechristened herself at the age of 15, called herself India, and getting rid of her last name by deftly marrying a handsome young British blowin with the surname Fyfe-Jones. Always a pretty girl, and always quite aware of it, when it became clear that Fyfe-Jones wasn’t going to make a packet and didn’t have the family connections she’d quite imagined from his double-barrelled surname, she divorced him and quickly moved to Sydney where she enrolled in an art course majoring in photography, seduced one of her more well-known lecturers (guest lecturer actually, he was a well-known painter by the name of Robert Aars), and promptly moved into his ramshackle mansion.
By this time her father had left her mother and started a caravan home on the Gold Coast. India is estranged from her mother, who now lives in a Buddhist centre somewhere in California. Since the mid-eighties, India has told anyone who asks that her parents died in a light plane accident in Tanzania when she was 11 and that she was brought up by her aunt who was a white witch.
As Robert Aars’ star ascended, so did India Fyfe-Jones’ , she being his principle model and most of his paintings being nudes done in thick oil paint and verging on the pornographic. She had by now finished the art course and on the strength of her lover’s name and not a great deal of talent, she set herself up as a freelance photographer and began photographing the Australian art-scene. In her quieter moments, she decided to document the male prostitutes at the Wall in Kings Cross, and within a year she was showing her prints in small but fashionable galleries in Sydney and Melbourne. her photographs also tended to focus on the pornographic and the degrading, and she exhibited a much greater talent for finding the seediest subjects in the most humiliating circumstances than she ever did for photographing them. But the critics loved it, and being a Gemini, India was able to provide numerous spiels to lend intellectual credit to her work.

Then Robert Aars, who was well into his seventies, died of a sudden heart attack, and India, who was 26 by now, wrote a memoir called ‘Split To The Core – My Life With Robert Aars’. Overnight his paintings doubled in price all over the world, and India became famous as his young, beautiful and talented muse. For almost 18 months, she flew around the world promoting her book, giving interviews about Robert, and taking up work which had been offered on the strength of her book.

Alas, the international media was much crueler than the local. Several reviewers and galleries cottoned on to the fact that India’s own work was exploitative shite (one of the reviewers compared it to Madonna’s ‘Sex’ book and said that India’s work suffered by comparison), and after one and a half years of glittery non-stop self-promotion, she was called out as a charlatan. She high-tailed it back to Sydney before the bad press followed her home.
Once in Sydney she announced that she’d done all she could in the medium of still photography, and turned her hand to installation art, which she has been doing ever since. She made a mint out of her book and her overseas tours, and being a clever Gem, she invested it in mining futures and made an even bigger mint.

To date, she has not done anything further either worthwhile or notable. In the late nineties she had a nervous breakdown which probably had a lot to do with hitting her peak at 26. She applies for, and gets, numerous grants from the Australia Council and other arts funding bodies, and she regularly exhibits in fashionable galleries. Despite this, her art is still shite and boring, but it doesn’t matter, she gives glib interviews and the reviewers are entranced. She swans it at openings, dressed to kill in numbers like this hair skirt, and people who know her run for cover and hide in the toilets before she can corner them to talk about herself and her next concept. She lives in Aars’ old mansion, which she had renovated, and from here she still gives the occasional interview or sends out a press release regarding her work. She likes to appear fashionably dishevelled when interviewed, and gives out that she is a vegetarian when the truth is that she lives on chilled white wine and Marlboro lights. In her almost empty fridge there is Yoplait light, some marinated olives, and her cocaine stash in a caviar tin. She scares the hell out of most men, the walls of her mansion are covered in Aars’ pornographic portraits of her which take away most of the mystery, plus she exudes a certain desperation. other women avoid her like the plague because she is so self-obsessed. She is not even good in bed, but of course, she is a legend. The only people who actively seek her out are her reviewers, and journalists looking for filler for weekend magazines. In her darker moments, she wonders whether, if she had her time over again, she should have just stayed married to Fyfe-Jones and had a brood of kids.