Costume Institute Gala: best, worst & most disappointing

Best:

1. Lindsay Lohan (Zac Posen)

2. Rose McGowan (focus on the dress, not the face)3. Jennifer Lopez (Marchesa) 4. Sandra Bullock (Alberta Ferreti) 5. Iman (Emporio Armani)

Worst*

1. Ivanka Trump

2. Elizabeth Banks 3. Giselle Bünchen (YSL) 4. Renee Zellweger (Carolina Herrera) 5. Kirsten Dunst (vintage YSL)

*Jessica Simpson has her own category that goes beyond "worst"

Most disappointing:

1. Cate Blanchett (Balenciaga)

2. Scarlett Johansson (Stella McCartney) 3. Jennifer Garner (Valentino)4. Chloë Sevigny (Balenciaga)5. Julianne Moore (YSL)

Sometimes ugly-all-over just works

How else do I explain my bizarrely positive reaction to this photo of Keira Knightley with her looks-like-Orlando-but-isn't beau, Rupert Friend, as they stroll all lovey-dovey and Duran-Duran-like through London's Piccadilly Square yesterday afternoon?

Style Scorecard:

Black opaque tights with open-toed gold t-strap sandals -- minus one (it's that same "Hillary Clinton is a shrew" conundrum -- you just know you're right)

Holey jeans and flip-flops -- minus two (you're not in college anymore, pretty boy, grow up and buy some jeans that didn't come from the Fly Girls wardrobe and shoes that don't expose your hairy hobbit toes)

Shapeless gingham shirt dress and oversized matchy-matchy red cardigan -- minus three (how dare that selfish bitch hide her size-zero figure when there are so many desperate size-eights out there who'd give anything to see a bit of rib or jutted-out hipbone?)

Man purse -- plus one/minus one (seems wrong but I'm attracted to the confidence it takes to rock it)

Stupid straw hat -- plus one (it's only stupid because I know I couldn't pull it off)

You know, after the breakdown, I think I've come to the realization Keira and Rupert's success isn't borne out of ugly-cancels-out-ugly but rather the fact that they're both just really beautiful people. She could have full-on scabies and he could be wearing khakis and a golf shirt, and still, they'd be the most knockout couple in the crowd.

The best piece of evidence to support this conclusion - that ugly doesn't definitively cancel out ugly - is a photo of the already defunct marriage of hideousness that was Kirsten Dunst and Johnny Borrell.

Gross, I know.

To pixie or not to pixie?

That might just be the question.

Cutting your hair as pixie-short as Elisha Cuthbert, Michelle Williams and the woman I saw exiting Andre Chreky at the corner of 16th and K at around 6:15 yesterday evening is tantamount to declaring to the world, "My face is flat-out gorgeous."

And in their respective cases, they're right. They are that pretty. And Natalie, Halle, Sienna, Charlize and my fedora-adoring friend C? All of 'em, forget about it, they'd be gorgeous completely bald.

While I'm confident enough to know I'm not stuck in Kirsten Dunst, Jennifer Aniston or post-Good Will Hunting Minnie Driver territory, I also know my limits, and when it comes to hair, that's about two inches below my ears. Any shorter, and I'm right back in that chair at the JC Penney salon in Lansing with trainee stylist "Gessica," a boy's bowlcut (complete with side-buzzing) and a tear-stained picture of Demi Moore from Ghost I had carefully torn out of YM magazine and constantly, though unsuccessfully, reminded Gessica to reference throughout my 11 minute cut.

Michelle (pictured below) claimed the decision to chop was made for her -- a role in an upcoming film required it. Equally practical, Elisha (above) said it was the years of styling damage that finally convinced her to trim a good nine inches off her long-ish bob. Unfortunately, I didn't ask the woman I spotted yesterday why she had taken the Mia Farrow plunge, a decision in retrospect based on how comfortable she seemed with her daring 'do. A woman who's just followed through on a decision most of us think about but never really take seriously when our stylists ask us, "So...what are we doing today?" depending on the outcome, either wears the proud but giddily excited look of a woman who's just returned to work after an on-a-whim hour-long "lunch" in room 416 at the Mayflower, or she looks like an eight year old who's lost her Mommy in a Super Wal-Mart: trembling lip, tear-brimmed eyes and in a state equal parts disbelief, remorse and abject fear.

This woman wore neither expression. She just looked pleased. It was clear she had gone in for a touch-up, not a lop-off. She wasn't particularly well-dressed, nor was she memorably striking, but as she strode out the front door of my salon, I had to quickly skip from "Ode to..." to Ralphi's Hot Freak remix of "Don't cha" so I could stop and admire the confidence behind that haircut with just the right soundtrack. If successfully executed, I imagined myself walking about town making every man who passed me nod in admission that they did, in fact, wish their girlfriends were hot like me.

Still, there is the potential, even with a trusted stylist, for all this to go very, very wrong.

When it comes to love, I've always been a proponent of holding off on making important decisions when the two of you are still in that face-to-face-three-times-a-day, saying-"I-love-you"-every-10-minutes-and-meaning-it happy bubble. Yesterday, upon seeing this woman, I realized that same logic applies to dramatic haircuts as well.

So instead of showing up for the appointment I have with Rodney after work today armed with these two pictures of Elisha and Michelle, I'm going to postpone my trim a couple of weeks and see if my fondness for boy-hair is sincere or simply a passing fancy brought on by listening to too much god damn Snow Patrol.

Remind me again how we know *for sure* she's female?

Instead of bitchy commentary, I'm just going to let you judge for yourself while peeking through your hands, which, I know, like mine, are already covering your eyes at the mention of her name.

Ladies and gentleman, the undeniable hotness of Gollum Dunst:

(note: I apologize for the abrupt shudder-to-sigh transition, but to stop your eyes from bleeding, I thought I should include a picture of the lovely Rachel McAdams, who reminds us all that even with wonky highlights and a really bad Chanel dress - the same one Kirsten wore to this year's Oscar's - a pretty face has the power to conquer all)

Worst five

These aren't in any particular order, mainly because I couldn't decide between Kirsten Dunst in Chanel and Beyoncé in Armani Privé not only whose dress was the bigger mistake but also who most egregiously grandstanded their worst feature.

Wonky teeth or knees the size of basketballs -- you decide.

And no, I don't feel bad for including 10 year old sweet-as-berry-pie Abigail Breslin in this group. The bodice of her dress looks like one of the planters from my Malibu Barbie pool house. I expected more from her handlers.

The biggest disappointment of the night is Anne Hathaway's black and white WTF Valentino gown. After On Demand-ing The Devil Wears Prada for the third time today, I figured she would be in my top five, maybe even crack the top three, but nuh-uh, not in this column dress with white lace overlay and awkwardly large black bow that is smack dab in front of - and prohibitively blocking - Ms. Hathaway's spectacular rack.

And then there's Jada Pinkett-Smith in her brassy-gold strapless corseted Carolina Herrera number. I wouldn't hate this dress as much if it was on a less annoying woman and didn't have those two superfluous miniature bows on the bodice. Actually, I'm pretty sure she'd end up in my bottom five no matter what she wore.

She's that annoying.

Enjoy.

Equilibrium

I'm not saying the young woman deserved what she got.

Not really.

But I certainly wasn't going to slacken my pace and offer my Tide-to-go stick to someone who just moments prior to spilling the better part of her vanilla Slim Fast all over herself had given me an unreasonably, undeservedly cool glare at the intersection of 15th and M.

It was the kind of glare a suit-and-sneakers girl - a wide-pinstriped-suit-and-crosstrainers girl - makes a habit of throwing at women in 4-inch, round-toed, brown croc, Mary Jane stilettos with deconstructed sidebows simply because they remind her of how proletariat she looks carrying her half-inch, block-heeled, square-toed (I'm assuming) slides in the front flap of her black-floral quilted fempack.

I'm not saying you should refuse the free bag with your three-greeting-card purchase, I'm just saying there does exist an implicit understanding you're not actually supposed to take it outside of the subdivision -- even if it's in the backseat of your sensibly-priced, character-free Japanese four-door.

Bag aside, this woman immediately struck me as the type who would proudly wear the smell of ineffective liquid meal replacement as a badge of anti-vanity rather than duck into the nearby Ann Taylor to swap her soiled top for a crisp, final-clearance button-up, and so I thought better about donating to her the 20% off coupon I'd tucked into my hardcover on my way out the door this morning.

I have to remind myself sometimes that the end-goal of this blog is not to transform everyone in DC but rather to reach as close a model of dynamic equilibrium, fashion-wise, as possible.

For every Scarlett Johanssen there must be a Beyoncé, for every Cate Blanchett a Jessica Simpson, and for every Penelope Cruz/Salma Hayek, yes, even a crawfish-faced Kirsten Dunst.

It's science. Le Chatelier proved it: