Munachi Abii Covers Maiden Edition Of The Beauty Box Magazine

Agbani Darego, Chris Attoh cover Nov issue of Complete Fashion

Agbani Darego, Chris Attoh cover Nov issue of Complete Fashion

Miss Ghana 2012 Contestants Take To Street Catwalk In London

This year's edition of the Miss Ghana contest is surely pushing the boundaries and setting new heights and standards for future beauty pageantry around Africa. The contestants for this year''s miss Ghana were taken for a cat-walking event in London, photos from the exhibition below:

Photos: Meet The 13 Finalist For Sylvia Nduka's Hair Competition

MBGN 2010 Sylvia Nduka is doing something different, and am loving it. 13 ladies have been selected for the finals of the maiden edition of the Face of Sylvia Hair reality TV show for her newly opened hair line, Sylvia’s Hair Gallery.

The winner of the competition will be rewarded with a sum of N 1 million, a car, trip to Dubai and become a brand ambassador of the hair outfit.Consolation prizes include N50,000 for the best dressed girl in camp and a Chris Aire diamond wrist watch for the contestant with the loudest cheer.

Nigerian Musician St Janet Catches her Husband Sleeping With Her 16 Year Old Daughter

Notorious Lagos-based female singer, St. Janet (real names Omotoyosi Kayode Iyun) is not in the best of times as her marriage is on the verge of crashing due to serious troubles on the home front.

Despite her musical success, St Janet ’s happiness on the home front is fast turning into nightmares barely two months after marrying her heartthrob, Olukayode Samuel Iyun who incidentally is her band manager.

It was gathered that the stocky built singer has packed out of her matrimonial home following a shocking discovery by her about her husband sleeping with one of her daughters. The girl (name withheld) from St Janet ’s previous marriage was reported to have spent the last holiday with her mother and step-father at their Ilapo Estate, Alagbado home.
St Janet was said to be happy at the opportunity of being reunited with her daughter who was before then staying with one of her relations. Unfortunately, her joy soon turned into despair as rumours started making the rounds about an amorous relationship between her daughter and her new husband.

All doubts about her suspicion were cleared recently when she allegedly caught her husband making love to her daughter whose age was put around 16 right inside her matrimonial home.

Sources close to the musician said the despicable act had thrown St Janet off-balance and dejected and she has swore never to forgive her man, Kay, as her husband is fondly called.

It was learnt that the development has forced the lewd singer to move out of her matrimonial home as she could not bear the shame which the incident had brought upon her. It was also disclosed that St Janet has temporarily moved to an hotel within the neighbourhood to fend off contact with Kay.

To say St Janet is enraged by the ugly incident is to say the least, she is completely devastated as she reportedly cancelled all engagements for about two weeks ostensibly to recover from the rude shock, a source added.

However, a close source to the singer is trying to down play the shameful incident. He said the only problem between the St Janet and her husband is a minor misunderstanding that might be resolved soon.

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On the Runway Blog: Exhibition on Katharine Hepburn

“A STAR practically always asks for a designer, if she has any sense,” Katharine Hepburn said in an unpublished interview from the mid 1970s. No one would dispute that Hepburn had heaps of sense, or be surprised that she had a lot to say about her legendary style. That is the subject of an exhibition at the New York Public Library for the Performing Arts at Lincoln Center until Jan. 12.

Schalke plan for Klaas-Jan Huntelaar replacement

By Stephan Uersfeld, Germany Correspondent

Schalke remain hopeful that Klaas-Jan Huntelaar will sign a new contract with the club but general manager Horst Heldt has conceded the search for a replacement is already under way.

PA PhotosKlaas-Jan Huntelaar: A key man for Schalke

Huntelaar, 29, is in the final year of his contract at Schalke, and Heldt said in September that talks over an extension had reached a standstill.

The Bundesliga side have not, however, given up hope that the Netherlands international, who signed at Veltins-Arena from AC Milan in 2010, will commit to a new long-term deal.

"Certainly, we have hope," Heldt told DerWesten. "Klaas-Jan has not extended his contract, yet. He wants to focus on other things. That's legitimate.

"It is important he applies himself, plays successful football and 100% identifies with the region and the club.

"We would like to extend, as he is a first class striker, who will again add many goals to his name this season. But - like always in the past two years - we expect the worst, not the best. And look for alternatives."

The side's boss, Huub Stevens, is also in the final year of his contract, but Schalke are in no rush to begin negotiations.

Heldt said: "We both agreed upon taking our time and see how the season works out. We will find a date to talk about whether we continue working together. That date will be set by Huub and me."

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Social Q’s: Announcing a Death on Social Media

Carole, New York

I’m sorry for your loss, Carole. (And hope your son restrained himself from creative use of hashtags: #bummer.) I also hope that none of your ex’s immediate family or close friends learned of his death via social media.

To me, Facebook and Twitter are too chilly for sharing tragedies with our nearest and dearest. Not to mention that these posts would be sandwiched between gags by Jimmy Fallon and clips of Honey Boo Boo. On the other hand, social media seem well suited for spreading the word to workaday pals — after our first- (and possibly second-) tier folks have been notified.

Ideally, your son and his stepmother should have agreed on a communication plan in advance: I’ll call Aunt Margaret, you tell his tennis pro. But I am willing to cut your son some slack, and hope that you and his stepmother will do the same. It’s only natural that he would turn to his comfort zone in a time of grief. For you and me and others north of 32, that would almost certainly involve a telephone.

But for your son, who probably picks up the phone to speak rarely, if ever, his impulse would be to text and tweet and post his sad news on Facebook. There is little use in bemoaning our changing times. I just hope we all find what we need in our dark hours. And no matter what your son thinks, he should apologize to his stepmother for hurting her feelings.

Eight Guests, Six Gifts

We gave an elaborate paintball party for our son’s 12th birthday. We opened gifts and served cake at home. I was surprised that only six of the eight guests brought birthday gifts. I was even more surprised that neither of the (nongifting) boys nor their parents expressed any remorse for coming empty-handed. We live in a wealthy beach enclave, so financial trouble is probably not a factor. Am I wrong or petty in assuming that everyone should have brought a gift? And what should I say to my son, who hasn’t asked about the boys who stiffed him?

S. S., Del Mar, Calif.

You’re probably not wrong, Mama Bear (and naturally feel protective of your cub), but you sound a little petty to me. Party guests with gifts are always welcome, and I would never send my child empty-handed. But carping about a subpar gift rate seems rather grubby. It was a birthday, not a barter economy.

Look on the bright side. You gave a terrific party that your son and his chums loved. He hasn’t said anything about the missing gifts. (So why bring them up? He probably didn’t notice.) Plus, there was cake! I’d call your shebang a raging success.

For your inevitable follow-up: Yes, when the monsters who came giftless invite your son to their birthdays, be the bigger person and send a present (preferably, a messy one that comes in 3 million tiny pieces).

It Was Better Than ‘Cats’

Six months ago, a former professor asked me to read a manuscript of his play, which he had professionally bound. I agreed. Yesterday, he asked if I had finished, because he wants the copy back. Unfortunately, it was awful, and I never made it past the first act. The manuscript also spent some time in a puddle of coffee. How can I avoid returning it and telling him I never finished reading it? Anonymous, New York

The coward’s way is clear: apologize profusely for having mislaid the play, which you found powerful and thought-provoking. But since you’re no coward (and gave your word), how about sitting down — right now! — and spending the 90 minutes it will take to polish off the play, while dreaming up one thing you like about it and two pieces of constructive criticism? Then apologize for the caffeine debacle as the curtain falls on a rousing ovation (and assures your glowing graduate-school recommendation).

Elbows Off Your Neighbor

At several dinner parties, I have been seated next to men who jabbed me in the arm all night to underscore their points. While the force was inconsequential, it became a nuisance as the evenings progressed. Changing seats was not an option. Any suggestions?

Stephen

Two choices, depending on your demographic and self-image: Whisper “bursitis” or “new Harley tattoo.” Either will work like a dream.

For help with your awkward situation, send a question to SocialQ@nytimes.com or SocialQ on Facebook. You can also address your queries on Twitter to @SocialQPhilip. Please include a daytime phone number.

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Artful Fashion Meets Fashionable Art at Fairs

As art fairs and festivals bring a cosmopolitan crowd to London and Paris, a different question comes to the fore: Is art now more fashionable than fashion?

Last week’s Frieze art fair in London at Regent’s Park, with its two giant tents for master works and contemporary art, was a magnet for the young, smart, international set.

In Paris, this week’s International Contemporary Art Fair FIAC kicked off with a dinner hosted Saturday by Thaddaeus Ropac, one of the premier international modern art dealers. It was more chic than any event earlier in the month during Paris fashion week.

The cosmopolitan crowd, which included Anselm Kiefer through Gilbert and George and Anthony Gormley to Marc Quinn, also attracted from the fashionable world the jewelers Victoire de Castellane and Gaia Repossi, the designers Haider Ackermann, Christian Louboutin and Kris Van Assche and the philanthropist Bianca Jagger.

The gritty chic Lou Doillon, placed in the fashion camp via her mother Jane Birkin, entertained guests.

The dinner was held to celebrate the opening of a spread of new Thaddaeus Ropac galleries — vast interlinked buildings in the Pantin district, to the northeast of Paris.

Art and fashion collaborations know no borders. Art Basel Miami Beach has become such a magnet for smart society that Prada has had a pop-up shop there and Dior an artistic collaboration with the German artist Anselm Reyle. And in December, Art Basel Miami Beach will host the 60th birthday celebration of down-jacket brand Moncler.

The art/fashion thing has been going on for two decades, with the regeneration of downtown areas through art galleries and performance events now an established method of upgrading an area.

That idea is embedded in Dasha Zhukova’s Garage cultural center in St. Petersburg and in the opening last year of a vast new White Cube gallery in London’s Bermondsey. The same concept is behind the current developments of Mr. Ropac and the American art dealer Larry Gagosian, whose new gallery is by Le Bourget airport north of Paris.

So art is fashionable — as it was in the era of Art Nouveau or in Paris in the 1920s. But what is fashionable for art lovers to wear?

The codes of artistic society demand that punters play the part, as they did in the fin de siècle era when Bohemian looks were in vogue.

An exhibition of “Bohèmes,” at the Palais Royal in Paris (through Jan. 14) has a section devoted to the poets and artists from Baudelaire and Rimbaud through Van Gogh and Picasso.

The artistic attire of those creative figures was unconventional and mildly exotic, worn with a mix of flamboyance and melancholy. The key items included a floppy scarf, breeches, vests and jackets, in a mix of painterly colors and worn with a studied deshabille.

The fashion key is a subtle touch of eccentricity. The men who walk the galleries today tend to have a meld of different surfaces — tweed, velvet or ribbed corduroy — and graphic patterns on shirts with a flash of bright color on a scarf.

For women, the style choice is simpler: the art devotees wear Prada. Anyone who wondered who would buy the bold, geometric pants suits offered up at MiuMiu for the autumn season had only to visit Frieze, where almost every version of what had appeared on the runway for autumn was presented as perambulating art.

Even Raf Simons, newly crowned as designer at Dior, and a devotee of Frieze since its inception 10 years ago, wore Prada from fur-collar coat to gilt studded shoes.

The polka dots that Marc Jacobs designed for Louis Vuitton, inspired by the obsessive Japanese artist Yayoi Kusama, were conspicuous by their absence.

Issey Miyake’s pleats are a staple of the art world, and the Japanese maestro has just brought out a book to celebrate 10 years of his invention.

“Pleats Please Issey Miyake,” by Midori Kitamura ( Taschen), shows in its 576 pages the scope of pleats horizontal, vertical or zig-zag. The fashion oeuvre even include prints of digitally-realized prints of bodies within the architectural lines.

Rei Kawakubo of Comme des Garçons was another designer in the frame at Frieze. The flower patterns on flat plane clothes looked like walking works of art. Their only competition was a flower sculpture seen outside in the park.

The fact that the passage into the Frieze tent had walls with a pattern of colorful sneakers, or ‘’Sleeping Loafers” by the German artist Thomas Bayrle, only added to the impression that fashion and art were locked in an embrace.

Why not? Joseph Beuys, an artist who made emotional and meaningful felt suits, is one of the figures whose work is on display at the new Thaddaeus Ropac gallery. The artist’s work underlined the link between creativity and cloth.

So for viewers and visitors to the current art fairs, the challenge is to be a living, breathing, walking example of fashionable art.

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Domestic Lives: The Breakup Bed

“Doesn’t matter,” he says. “By the time the guy is into the bedroom, the deal is closed. He won’t even notice.”

“It also creaks when things heat up,” I say. “I’m worried one day it will collapse.”

“That he would notice,” my friend says.

Off I go, then, to find a bed with dignity. Something solid, stylish and assured, befitting a person of my age and taste, a bed that says this woman will put up with none of your nonsense, do not even think of trying it, pal. It takes about a minute and a half to find. It is dark wood, with a linen and mahogany headboard, and lots of storage drawers. Catherine the Great and the Preobrazhensky Life Guards could spend the night on this bed and it wouldn’t collapse. And in the morning you could say, “How’d ya sleep, fellas?” and they’d pound their Wheaties bowls on the table and holler, “????????????? ???????!!” (“Wonderful bed!!”)

I also need a new mattress. There are seasons of mattresses, I have come to realize, that correlate with one’s stages of maturity. When you are 17 and sneaking into abandoned hotels in the Catskills with your boyfriend, and the mattresses smell of mold and are so skinny they can be rolled up, you do not care one bit. You are enchanted to be on a surface that does not include rocks. When you are 24 and have your first newspaper job, you become more selective; a mattress on the floor is a sign of a very immature guy and you quickly move on. For the next few decades, there is a mattress and a human nonintervention pact: you live side by side, like the United States and Canada, without giving each other much thought. Mattresses have as much identity as gym socks.

Then you hit 60, and you wake up stiff and get out of bed in increments, as if you had extra joints, channeling your grandmother: “Oy. Oy vey. Vey iz mir.” You don’t need one of those “French Women Don’t Do Whatever It Is You Do, You Pathetic American Slob” books to know that this is not hot. Also, you cannot keep kidding yourself that your back aches because of the gym. Your back aches because you are in your 60s. It is serious mattress time.

I trot into a mattress store that is having a sale, searching for a brand I slept on in a friend’s house, for which she paid about $1,000. The current model, with tax and delivery, will cost $1,647, which throws me, but O.K., inflation. I try it. It is soft and welcoming, perhaps too welcoming. I might soon be pulled under, like in the quicksand scene in “Lawrence of Arabia.” The salesman, aware that he has a live one, steers me to a firmer model. I love it. It is a magnificent mattress. Perfect. The sale price, however, with tax comes to $2,486. This is more than I paid for my first car. Say you spilled something on it. It could be like the 2008 market crash. A major investment would be wiped out.

“It’s very nice,” I tell the salesman, “but way over what I was planning to spend.”

“Let me see what I can do — I can make a call,” the salesman says, and “If there is one thing I never want to do, it is make anyone feel pressured.”

Whether this comes before or after, “I work on commission,” I do not recall. I do know I am not about to make a $2,400 decision in 20 minutes.

“I have to think about it,” I say. “I’ll be back.”

“Everybody says that,” the salesman says. “And only nine out of 10 do.”

“Look,” I say, “I’m a very straight shooter. If I say I will be back, I will be back.”

Now you might argue, as any adult who has not had a table dropped on his or her head should, that a promise made to a salesman does not count and, moreover, the salesman knows it does not count. It’s like when a guy with whom you have had no chemistry all evening says, “I’ll call you,” an acceptable social lie and much nicer than the guy adding, “When you are the last woman on earth and I have a gun to my head, and even then, when we sleep together, I’ll be picturing someone else.”

And rationally, in the upper crust of my brain, I do know this. But there is a voice inside me saying: “You made a promise, you have to keep your word.” It is very aggravating. Shouldn’t the smartness train have pulled into the station by now? And, of course, even as I am returning to the mattress store, where I do not want to go, to speak to this pushy salesman, I know the answer: This wisdom-of-age stuff is nonsense; certain things are in the hardwiring, you will do the same dumb things over and over. I go back to the store, but this serious mattress purchase is too much for me. I do not buy it.

Which is just as well, as I am having second thoughts about the bed as well. I am concerned that the drawers will make me feel as if I am sleeping on a bureau or worse, a child’s bed. Also, with the headboard and the new dresser and the side table, the set will come to $3,800. And the painting contractor who carries the insurance my building demands gives me an estimate of $2,400 to paint a 13-by-15-foot bedroom. Not only that, but people are so worried about bedbugs in New York that I can’t take the old mattress out of the building unless it wears something like a mattress condom. And trying to coordinate all the pickups and paint jobs and mattresses coming and going has given me a headache.

To hell with the new bedroom.

If someone comes along, we’ll do it on the couch.

Joyce Wadler on Twitter: @joyce_wadler

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Fashion Review: At Paris Shows, Welcome Touches of Levity

Susanne Bartsch, the New York club promoter, arrived at the Jean Paul Gaultier show on Saturday night wearing a see-through black body stocking and a broad chiffon headpiece that toppled over into her neighbor’s airspace. That would be mine.

“I came from the Vivienne Westwood show, and I had to change because of course I had to wear something of his,” she said, meaning something by Mr. Gaultier. “It is insane!”

Moments earlier, members of a middle-aged Kiss tribute band walked by wearing silver stretch bodysuits that left not enough to the imagination. The runway was covered in some form of glittering black grit that emitted a strange smell, and Mr. Gaultier was promising a show with top models dressed as pop stars from the 1980s, including Madonna, Grace Jones, Annie Lennox, Sade, Michael Jackson and a couple you would recognize only if you are French.

So, yes, it was insane. But insanity, or just loosening up, is something that fashion could stand a little more of now and then, and Mr. Gaultier’s runway show was hilarious. Karlie Kloss, with her swingy-slinky walk, was a natural as Boy George in a rainbow-striped kimono jacket, and Jessica Stam performed at least two versions of Madonna, wearing a corseted costume that Ms. Bartsch leaned over and described as “couture bondage.” (As far as the clothes went, the Jane Birkin section, though inappropriate for the time frame, offered the most commercially viable options, like a jeans jacket in denim-colored sequins.) By the time the descriptive-resistant performer Amanda Lear made an appearance, in a shiny pink bathing suit, there were no words, just applause.

In a season of serious fashion, with a lot of intensity surrounding the ready-to-wear collections of Raf Simons at Dior and Hedi Slimane at Saint Laurent, there were still bursts of levity.

Carol Lim and Humberto Leon, now in their second year as the designers of Kenzo, have had a commercial hit with their sweatshirts embroidered with the face of a tiger, which are competing with Balenciaga’s poster-print graphics for the title of most ubiquitous look among showgoers. So their spring collection carried forward with more jungle imagery, this time Asian-inspired, with tiger stripes and digitally rendered leopard spots as hidden embroidery amid the dresses and coats. Some pieces, like a smartly belted duster dress in khaki and navy, were loosely based on the elements of a trench coat.

Isabel Marant gave equal play to Hawaiian floral prints and Indian paisleys in her easygoing collection, which consisted of the usual assortment of slim-fitting jeans and blouses, cutoff shorts and slouchy sweatshirts, or just enough for a cool girl to find something to love.

Over at Carven, Guillaume Henry was a little heavy-handed with dark, wintry colors and suits made of a thick sponge-y fabric, but he also offered a clever toile print on sunny dresses with cutouts at the sides. If you looked closely, the toile depicted an African safari, with lions lounging under trees and giraffes craning their necks.

Rather than playing coy, Peter Copping went for kinky this season at Nina Ricci, pairing many of his looks with fishnet stockings. That includes one clear fishnet-print raincoat. It was a bit too much, but the sexier look worked well enough with playful polka-dot dresses that were just on the safe side of transparency, or when he sobered up a suit, with a brazen slit skirt and a jacket with elasticized sleeves, with a touch of gray men’s-wear checks.

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Fashion Review: Chanel, Chloé, Saint Laurent, Valentino: Fashion Review

On Tuesday morning, streams of black cars made their way to the Grand Palais for the Chanel show, and the driver of a Rolls-Royce with diplomatic plates got into a shouting match with two French police officers.

Unsaid is how much fuel is burned for fashion: constructing show spaces that will be immediate tear-downs (Dior), installing mega sound systems (Saint Laurent) or just getting thousands of models, editors, buyers, hairdressers, caterers and the odd celebrity (Jennifer Lopez, at both Chanel and Valentino) around town. This extensive use of time and resources is all to display clothes in the most advantageous light.

A designer must work doubly hard to show that there’s a creative purpose in such excess. And even then, there’s always a chance he or she will seem woefully out of touch.

The 12 wind turbines on the Chanel runway, their blades idly turning under the glass roof of the Palais, did not mean that Karl Lagerfeld had gone green. Like the blue solar-panel pattern on the runway, they were strictly for effect: to suggest the technological innovations in the fabrics, as well as lightness and air.

A household fan, I guess, just wouldn’t do.

Chanel can be accused of obtuseness and political incorrectness; it once trucked in an iceberg. In the end, the turbines didn’t really add anything to the show, except an absurd sense of delight each time you looked up at the white blades. But neither did they detract from anything. On that huge, light-hazy stage, framed by the minimalist towers, the spectrum of colors — royal blue, pink, aqua, red, sage, lavender — blurred into random drops, much as your eye picks out the bright hues in crowded streets.

It’s hard to know where Mr. Lagerfeld gets his ideas, or how much of the total effect he sees in his mind as he starts to sketch a collection. But his ability to impart abstract impressions, as well as an attitude, is utterly fascinating. Another thing to look for in this collection are graphic textures: subtle grid effects created by mesh (sometimes embedded in cotton), very flat tweeds, the bold stripes in the platforms of shoes, and the checked edging of paper-white jackets and cropped tops. The short, blown-out silhouette is self-evidently about air.

Hedi Slimane has returned to the runway, as creative director of Saint Laurent, where he once designed men’s wear before transforming Dior Homme into a hot, skinny-suit connection. He brought back his showmanship but, alas, not the fashion sense that people expected of him.

He seemed reluctant, in fact, to interpret the Saint Laurent style, and so what the audience got (I saw the collection online, as I was not invited) were tightened-up pantsuits, blouses with frothy bows, fringed suede, floppy hats, caftans and other bohemian trappings from the late ’60s and ’70s. It was a nice but frozen vision of a bohemian chick at the Chateau Marmont.

The real question is whether there remains a vital enough story in Saint Laurent to tell to young women. With Céline, Phoebe Philo created her own. Maybe that’s a cue to Mr. Slimane: Don’t tell other peoples’ stories, tell your own.

I don’t know a “virginal polo shirt” from another polo shirt, but despite how that sounds, the Valentino designers, Maria Grazia Chiuri and Pierpaolo Piccioli, had a terrific show. In black, paper-white, ivory, and rose shades of pink, A-line dresses and skirts in lace and other materials lightly swept over the body. Feminine details, like collars and bib fronts, were restrained. Along with the fabrics, what made the collection was the modest, beautiful line.

Clare Waight Keller has found her legs at Chloé — in cute, oversize Bermudas and rounded pants. The shorts looked great either with a slim collarless jacket and long crepe blouse or a cropped popover top (a trend this season) with crisp white T-top. The misses in this collection were almost all a result of some excessive gesture: a too-wide collar or overshaped sleeve. Last season she filled her collection with offbeat sportswear pieces. Somehow, she needs to pour off some of the feminine syrup.

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Fashion Review: Paris Fashion Week: At Givenchy, Coming Up for Air, and Taking a Step Forward

With nearly everyone here taking a pause, thinking outside fashion and the present moment, and burrowing into the early years of a house, if that is a designer’s job, I wondered what Riccardo Tisci would do at Givenchy.

Mr. Tisci has had a somewhat tortured journey at Givenchy, though he has outlasted, and in a way outgunned, his two predecessors. His motifs have included goth weeds, crucifixes and attack dogs. If he considered Hubert de Givenchy’s iconic dresses for Audrey Hepburn in a string of ’50s and early ’60s movies, and for women like Jacqueline Kennedy, he kept those thoughts well concealed.

Yet that period ought to be a powerful inducement for a designer to question his ideas, considering the freedoms that were in the air — in art, music, films. The sexual revolution was around the corner. And before Yves Saint Laurent got going, in 1962, Mr. Givenchy was on the case. His clothes were ravishingly light and knowing.

When Mr. Tisci opened his show, to live organ music, the first look was a baby-blue, one-sleeve silk dress with a ruffle around the yoke and down one side. Despite the striking accessories, like metal chokers embellished with wood and shoes with studded plexiglass heels, the eye kept flying back to the superb and satisfying clothes.

He aced the dopey ruffle, reducing its movement to a flutter on a lean silhouette. Not for a minute did the clothes look nostalgic. If he came close at all, it was with mock turtlenecks and halter fronts, but he submerged the latter with an airy white gazar tunic worn with black pants.

Gold bar tacks placed at the shoulders or the sides of tunics served as minimalist adornment, but they also kept in check the effusive fabrics, including radzimir and organza. Another classical statement was the Givenchy blouse, done in lace or chiffon with the modern asymmetry of one overscale sleeve.

It might not have been the most challenging collection, but for Mr. Tisci it was an important one, with liberating aspects. And its timing couldn’t be better.

Female designers of women’s fashion differ from men in that they wear the clothes, but, in a larger sense, they also inhabit them. They associate them with place, as well as mood and experiences. A female designer is more apt to treat a ruffle ironically. On Monday, both Stella McCartney and Giambattista Valli showed sheer looks.

But whereas Ms. McCartney’s tubular dresses playfully incorporated an elliptical patch of color into the pleated fabric, and could be worn alone or with a belted summer tweed jacket or one of her gauze knits for a completely different effect, Mr. Valli offered his clients the harsh choice of wearing underpants with his sheer minis. Fortunately, he had more substantial clothes, too.

In one way or another, Ms. McCartney was exposing a female obsession with this collection: how much of one’s self to show? From the crisp forest tweeds to asymmetrical wrap dresses, to a beautifully cut tuxedo with a boxy jacket, there was a cool sense of economy and order. But then she starts to tug at the blind. More skin is revealed: diamond-cut dresses in black and white silk organza, or the unfettered summer look of a black eyelet shirt over one of those clingy elliptical skirts, suddenly refined in jet black.

Hermès may have the world’s best leather artisans, along with silk-print makers, but what it needs is more passion and precision in its women’s fashion, from Christophe Lemaire. He seemed on the right track last season, with languid pantsuits and sports-inspired clothes, but this collection didn’t project a woman with an assured, quirky sense of style. Having the money to buy crocodile shorts with a matched top is beside the point. Would you anyway?

Even if some Hermès’s customers don’t mind being led by the nose, the company still has to invest in the dreams of other people, and the principle that they look to these shows for ideas, and not merely nice products. There should be a far more advanced sense of style at Hermès, as there already is in its men’s wear.

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Skin Deep: Book Clubs Are Turning Up in Spas

At what seems to be a growing number of spas, clients are comparing their thoughts about something other than the newest anti-aging facial or which technician gives the best deep-tissue massage. They’re discussing a suspenseful page-turner or recently released self-help best seller.

Book clubs have become a popular way for day and destination spas to bring in potential clients and to give existing ones an excuse to keep coming back. At the Carlyle Hotel, a monthly literary group began meeting this week at the Yves Durif Salon inside its Sense spa and listen to Erica Jong discuss “Sugar in My Bowl,” a sex anthology she edited.

At the Lake Austin Spa Resort in Austin, Tex., a series called For the Love of Books is held monthly, and Canyon Ranch established a series of author appearances last year at its flagship Tucson location. The “Paging” Happiness Book Club, introduced last month by Bliss, promotes a new release quarterly: for each title, the book and a companion package of products are sold on the spa’s Web site, with a themed treatment, like a manicure-pedicure accompanied by a guided meditation recorded by the author Gabrielle Bernstein around her book “May Cause Miracles,” available at most of its locations starting early next year.

Such promotions, said Heather Mikesell, executive editor of the trade magazine American Spa, make spa-going more social. “It’s more than hiding in a treatment room,” she said. “It’s something you can share with your friends, so it brings more to the table.” And because they both attract demonstrably more women than men, spas and book clubs are a logical match.

They are also a low-overhead investment. At day spas that offer book conversations and author appearances, it’s usually free to attend. At residential spas like Rancho La Puerta near San Diego in Tecate, Mexico, literary programming is included in the price of a stay. (Miraval Arizona Resort and Spa in Tucson charges a fee to attend its book series, which was introduced last year; it revolves around intimate talks by authors affiliated with the spa, like Dr. Andrew Weil.)

Most spas sell the books that are discussed, and some offer either a companion treatment or, as the Spa at the Omni Mount Washington Resort in Bretton Woods, N.H., does, occasional discounts on services to book-club attendees.

With the rise of these book gatherings, publishing houses are building spa appearances into their authors’ promotional tours. “It used to be that there were four different components: radio, television, magazines and newspapers,” said Leigh Ann Ambrosi, vice president for brand publishing at Crown Archetype. “Now when you look at the bookings, it’s so drastically different, and kind of anything goes. Everybody’s trying to do new things and establishing new partnerships and cross-promotional opportunities.”

“Happier at Home” by Gretchen Rubin, one of the titles Ms. Ambrosi is working on, is included in the Bliss book club. To promote it, Ms. Rubin will appear at the spa’s Lexington Avenue location in December and answer questions on its Web site after stops on “Today” and “Katie,” at chain and independent booksellers, and at several locations of the store Anthropologie. “Part of it is, ‘Kiss more’, so here’s lip balm, which is funny, but it’s really true,” Ms. Rubin said.

Participation in the Bliss events probably won’t spike sales the way a mention in Oprah Winfrey’s book club might have, but Ms. Ambrosi is still happy with the alliance. “You’re capturing the person that already wants to take care of themselves,” she said, “and now wants to take care of themselves in a more emotional way.”

Although authors are typically not paid for spa appearances (they fall under the umbrella of promotion), it doesn’t usually take a lot of arm-twisting to get writers to a spa. “It’s a nice treat for the authors,” said Robbie Hudson, director of programming at the Lake Austin Spa Resort. “The book tours can be pretty grueling. Sometimes they like to end their tour here and be pampered. They can do a talk and they’re a spa guest.”

Author appearances are not necessary for a book club to thrive. Ethos Fitness Spa for Women in Midland Park, N.J., has not included them in the literary discussions it offers periodically for members. The Ole Henriksen Face/Body Spa in Los Angeles plans to introduce a traditional book club for clients early next year, following the success of similar staff-only gatherings. But an author’s presence can help attract guests ... and sell books.

“It was delightful to understand more of what a writer does,” said Debbie McLeod, 57, a nurse administrator based in Arlington, Tex., who timed a visit to the Lake Austin Spa Resort in June with her mother and sister-in-law around an appearance by the author Claire Cook. Although she’d read only one of Ms. Cook’s novels at that point, after meeting Ms. Cook and hearing her speak, she said she subsequently bought another of her titles and is looking for a local book club to join as well.

Beyond just attracting clients, book clubs help spas position themselves as more than just a place for a restorative treatment or a regular eyebrow wax. “It’s allowed people to see us with an expanded view,” said Susan Grey, regional vice president for spa operations at Bliss. “You might come in one week for your laser hair treatment, but the next week you come to learn about how to achieve a higher state of happy at home or at work. That is our overall message: we would like people to think of Bliss as a place to come for overall wellness.”

In other words, though you might be doing more reading at the spa these days, don’t expect intellectual heavyweights like Jonathan Franzen or Zadie Smith to come wandering out of the sauna in terry-cloth sandals.

“For the spa owner and operator, it is an opportunity to touch that consumer in a very nonthreatening way: to educate the consumer that there’s a talk about a really great book but also, ‘Let us introduce you to this massage or pedicure,’ ” said Lynne McNees, president of the International Spa Association, a trade organization. “You really kill lots of birds with lots of stones during a book club. It’s good for the business.”

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This Life: Teaching Respect to the Young Faithful

Parents were dropping their children off at the synagogue, and the kids, unchaperoned, were treating the joint like the mall. Girls were hanging out in the bathroom, sitting on the countertops and texting their friends, while boys were playing tag football in the social hall and sneaking brownies from under the plastic wrap.

In the sanctuary, she wrote in a rant on the Web site of New Jersey Jewish News, they “are prone to talking unabated through the service, save for the 30 seconds after they’ve just been shushed by people who are wondering where those kids’ parents are.” Even her own did it, she confessed.

The problem got so bad, Ms. Ramer appointed herself a sort of bar mitzvah bouncer, strolling through the hallways and standing guard over the babka like a cross between Severus Snape from Hogwarts and Miss Trunchbull from “Matilda.”

When I was growing up as a Jew in Savannah, Ga., in the 1970s, I watched with ostracized awe at the elaborate grooming and finishing rituals performed by my friends in privileged social circles. Most of this training happened in the late teenage years, when girls would make their debut in the cotillion and boys, known as stags, would chaperon them.

The backbone of the process was a series of etiquette classes in which boys and girls would learn to don white gloves, wear corsages and boutonnieres, write thank-you notes, and mind their p’s and q’s (and R-rated hand movements). Jews, of course, were not invited.

These days, the tables have been turned. Jewish communities around the country, horrified by the appalling lack of manners their children display at bar and bat mitzvahs, are increasingly turning to more-formalized training efforts.

At the Hebrew Academy of the Five Towns and Rockaway, a Modern Orthodox day school in Lawrence, N.Y., the school holds weekly academic classes to prepare boys and girls to become bar and bat mitzvah scholars.

But administrators added a separate, in-school program to rehearse the proper etiquette guests should display at these events. The highlight is a mock service in which teachers coach students on how to sit quietly during prayers and listen attentively to remarks made by the rabbi, parents and grandparents. Members of the school staff even make telephone calls to students’ cellphones to prepare them for that eventuality.

“Like many things in life,” said Rabbi Dovid Kupchik, a principal at the school, “if you actually talk to the students about how to behave instead of just assuming they’re going to act a certain way, it’s fresh in their heads. For adults, it’s challenging enough to sit through 20 or 30 minutes of speeches, but for 12- and 13-year-old kids, it’s especially difficult.”

The school also offers instruction on how to behave at the after-party, teaching students the polite way to wait in line at a coat check and how to thank and wish mazel tov to the parents of the celebrant.

At the conclusion of the class, students are asked to sign a contract promising they will uphold certain standards of behavior and be a positive reflection on the school. “It reminds them that it’s not a glorified birthday party they’re attending,” said Rabbi Kupchik, “but a religious celebration.”

In Detroit, Joe Cornell Entertainment has been offering dance classes for preteens since the 1950s. The 12-week courses, which this fall will have over 300 students, are often held in synagogues and are made up primarily of Jewish sixth graders entering the bar and bat mitzvah years, said Steve Jasgur, who bought the company in 1991.

Along with teaching ballroom dancing and popular line dances like the Hustle, Wobble and Gangnam Style, instructors devote special time to teaching bar and bat mitzvah etiquette. Lessons include how to ask someone to dance and why you shouldn’t run off with the decorations.

Bruce Feiler’s newest book, “The Secrets of Happy Families,” will be published in February. “This Life” appears monthly.

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