For the Love of Lauren Conrad

How I heart thee Lauren Conrad! Some say you’re dull but I hear the spiky little barbs you mutter on The Hills, and I’m pretty sure I’m funnier and less annoying than Lo. Can’t you see she’s just a filler? We should be friends. I’d wear matching Miu Miu’s with you.  

In fact, I could borrow all of your clothes (while simultaneously losing three stone). That foolproof capsule wardrobe of well-cut basics, supplemented by colourful accessories. Those black Louboutin pumps, Lauren, they go with everything. Your racer-back vests (which make me look like a lesbian) tuck neatly into those perfectly poofed high-waisted skirts.

I even love your ‘Lauren’ two-finger, gold ring, although if I wore it, my friends would think me a narcissist with the jewellery tastes of an 11-year-old. Maybe it’s because it sits upon your perfectly tanned and manicured LA hands. Is it real or fake, that golden glow? How come you never have orange ankles or white wrists?

And finally, that famous hair. You make WAG-length extensions look almost desirable. I visualise long, loose waves, but when I curl my hair with a large-barrel tong, it makes one big curl at the ends like a character from Hey Arnold. 

She may be my ultimate style crush, but I’ll never be as chic as LC.