You run into an old acquaintance. You are unable to recall her name. It might be Eva, or maybe Yvonne. You’re not quite sure.

You take a closer look. Yes, it’s definitely Eva, but she is barely recognizable. Eva has undergone some kind of grotesque transformation. She used to look a bit like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl. Now, thanks to her fake hair extensions, fake nails, fake spray tan, fake collagen lips and fake boobs, she looks like a cross between Britney Spears, Mrs. Gastineau (the mother) and a blow-up doll.

Somehow you manage to refrain from asking her why she no longer looks like a librarian and is now dressing like a porno star, and you say, “Goodness me! Don’t you look … stunning! No, I mean it … I’m totally stunned.”

“Three roads lead to the kingdom of eccentric glamour,” writes Doonan, “Gypsy, Existentialist and Socialite.” “The world’s best-known Gypsy/Existentialist/Socialite amalgam is, however, a fashion model. Two words: Kate Moss.”

Delicately inserting a fake nail into the corner of her fake mouth to extract a couple of errant strands of fake hair — hair that was previously dark brown and, until recently, belonged to a disadvantaged miss on a faraway continent — Eva tells you she’s decided to “go for the natural look.”

Yes, you heard right. She said “the natural look.”

Sheesh! Times have changed.

Once upon a time, the natural look meant Joan Baez or Ali MacGraw or the thin pretty one from the Mamas and the Papas or, for that matter, dear old Mama Cass herself. Bohemian, groovy and eccentric, a natural gal was a love child, a hippie, a free spirit whose idea of dressing up for a big night out in Haight-Ashbury was to shove a daisy in her hair and dab a bit of patchouli on one of her salient features.

Now, apparently, it means looking about as natural as the Lady Bunny.

Shocking as Eva’s transformation is, you cannot shake the feeling that she looks hauntingly familiar.

Yes! Open the window and stick your head out. Heavens to Betsy! There are identical Eva clones strutting through every shopping mall. Embracing “the natural look” has, in fact, become something of an epidemic.

Many of your peers have opted — with the help of liposuction, collagen and a great deal of sass — for the Eva route. They have said yes to ho, and as a result they now resemble a bunch of ageing Bratz dolls. That boobs ‘n’ bleach ‘n’ Botox makeover is standard for any woman seeking to reinvent herself. This look is part of the I-don’t-want-to-look-like-a-grown-up-anymore-but-I-do-want-to-look-l ike-my-daughter-who-just-happens-to-dress-like-a-hoochiedancer movement.

“What’s so wrong with dressing supersexy?” I hear you ask.

“Are you some freaky middle-aged prude?” I also hear you ask.

Call me crazy, but I believe that there might just be more to being a woman than prancing around dressed up like a Stepford blow-up doll. Non? In my experience you gals are highly idiosyncratic creatures whose true essence is riddled with subtlety and nuance. Your sizzling sexuality is only one aspect of a complex and intriguing picture.

Let me digress briefly to clarify my position on the subject of vulgarity. Simply put, I adore it! A dash of bad taste is a vital component of eccentric glamour. I realize this may sound a little contradictory: On the one hand I am inveighing against an overtly whorish look that has regrettably become the chosen makeover option for so many women; on the other hand, I am extolling the virtues of vulgarity. What gives? Yes, ho style is vulgar, but it is not the vulgarity per se against which I inveigh. It is the conformity. It is the Stepford factor. It is the lack of personal expression. It is the fact that this hideous epidemic of blow-up dolls is compromising the ability of American women to develop an eccentrically glamorous individual style.

There is nothing wrong, I hasten to add, with maximizing one’s physical appeal, but there is a difference — vive la difference!– between being alluring and dressing like a ho. Or, as Oscar Wilde might have put it were he alive today, “to expose one cleavage seems unfortunate. To expose both cleavages seems like carelessness.”

Eccentric glamour — something Mr. Wilde, with his velvet knickers and floppy foulards, had in spades — is your only defence against the tidal wave of dangling pasties, lady lumps, hoochie hot pants and skanky halter tops. With a missionary zeal, I implore you gals to seek out eccentrically glamorous alternatives to the ubiquitous cheapness and tackiness that currently pass for personal style. Remember that porno chic is an evil conformist trend that has the potential, if allowed to burgeon unchecked, to eclipse individuality and personal eccentricity. So banish the badonkadonkdonk!

Say no to ho!

Let’s go grab Eva right now, shake some sense into her and put her on the righteous path to eccentric glamour.

Oh! Too late!

We missed our opportunity. She’s jumped up on a table out of earshot, and she’s doing the watusi. She jiggles. She wiggles. She giggles.

As you observe your old pal, you start to feel a bit left out. There she is clutching a large blue umbrella drink and getting her ass pinched, and she was always the designated driver, the sensible one who stood on the sidelines at the office party! There’s no denying she looks like a big whore, but she’s just having so much fun that it’s hard not to feel a teensy bit envious. And that butt-crack tattoo –apparently she had it done down in Miami when she was rat-faced drunk –is certainly getting her lots of attention, despite the adjacent lipo scars.

Being in Eva’s orbit is having an odd effect on you. Much as you might be completely dumbfounded by her unquestioning embrace of porno-chic, this encounter with your old pal is making you feel frumpy and frowzy and uninteresting. She may be one of the hos, but you are one of the schlumps, which is infinitely more depressing. You are suddenly seized with the desire to deschlump and reinvent yourself. Tired of playing Agnes Gooch, you decide you want a slice of the action. And why not? Everybody else is doing it, why not you?

We are living in an age where makeovers and boob jobs are as common as cheeseburgers. “Beauty” is no longer just for celebs; it’s now a commodity that can be bought at the mall or the dermatologist’s with a flick of your credit card. Transformation is the mot du jour. You can’t turn on the TV without confronting images of blubbering former “ugly ducklings” reunited with their disbelieving families.

So why not you?

A large question mark or two appears over your head.

Do you have what it takes to reinvent yourself?

The answer, of course, is a resounding YES!

But do you have what it takes to reinvent yourself without following in Eva’s footsteps? Do you have what it takes to resist the pressures to conform to the new slutty norm?

Can you figure out how to unearth and release the self-invented, nonconformist, taboo-busting individual who lurks inside you — and inside every woman, and certain types of men — and dive into a sparkling lagoon of style and fashion without ending up looking like a tramp?

Yes, of course.

In order to reinvent herself, a gal needs a concept.

If you are looking to reimagine your personal style, you cannot simply head for the local mall and start shopping your brains out. You need a good, strong, viable idea. A framework. Without it you will flounder about and, because it is the prevailing style, you will end up adopting Eva’s trampy look.

Embracing the life of a glamorous eccentric is easier than you would imagine. The choices are not infinite. When the chips are down, there are, you will be delighted to learn, only three roads that lead to the kingdom of eccentric glamour: Gypsy, Existentialist and Socialite.

At first this might sound utterly demented and insanely limited. It’s not. It is, as you will see, merely a fact of life.

The Gypsy is the ethereal, poetic, crafty, artsy, bohemian face of eccentric glamour. Though stylish, she privileges sensuality, freedom and comfort over fashion. Think Julia Roberts in her current mom-living-at-the-beach mode.

The Existentialist is infinitely more severe, dramatic, graphic and intellectual than her wayward Gypsy

sister. While the Gypsy is all about the flesh, the existentialist is all about the mind. Think edgy. Think beatnik. Think Annie Lennox or Chrissie Hynde.

The Socialite is heavy on the gloss, light on the eccentricity. She radiates old-school glamour. She’s lacquered, designer-clad, high-heel addicted, manicured, elegant and slightly bitchy. Though more “normal” in her appearance than both the Gypsy and the Existentialist, the Socialite compensates with an irreverent and sparkling wit. She is, in many ways, the conventional centre of the spectrum, flanked on either side by the Gypsy and the Existentialist. Think Anna Wintour. Think Jackie O.

Et voila!

A Gypsy, an Existentialist or a Socialite? Take your pick.

There is no need to feel pigeonholed or confined by these three categories. Within each group there are endless nuances and permutations that allow for unlimited personal expression.

Some of you will find that you are a combo platter — the Socialite/ Existentialist is, for example, an unexpected and growing phenomenon — and a small number of you will bounce around effortlessly among all three. Such people are rare and often unusually creative: Interior designers Celerie Kemble and Kelly Wearstler spring to mind. The world’s best-known Gypsy/Existentialist/Socialite amalgam is, however, a fashion model. Two words: Kate Moss.

8 a. m.: Kate skips through British customs after a sun-drenched Saint Barth’s photo shoot, looking every inch the bedraggled bohemian Gypsy in denim hot pants, minicaftan and embroidered pashmina.

Lunchtime: There’s Kate in a quirky black Marc Jacobs or Balenciaga ensemble — knee-high black boots, opaque black tights, minikilt, military-style fitted jacket — having an Existentialist chat and a pint with an enigmatic musician friend in an Islington pub.

As the sun sets, La Moss is snapped vamping off to some fancy opening on the arm of Karl Lagerfeld in vintage bijoux and a Chanel gown looking every inch the groovy Socialite.

Miss Moss is unusual. You may eventually skip around like the stylishly louche Kate, but for now let us concentrate on finding your home base, your style identity. Let’s find the best fit for your personality.

And, if you really are a total tramp whose main ambition in life is to lap-dance every bloke within screeching distance, then feel free to embrace porno-chic and continue dressing the part. Best of luck!

His visit to the India Fashion Week last season might have raked up a controversy that is threatening to blow the Indian fashion fraternity apart, but Armand Hadida, owner of the prestigious Tranoi Fair, has made sure that his selection for the Parisian event has a blend of the best and the youngest of Indian fashion.

The 13-member team from India has relative newcomers like Atsu Sekhose, Nitin Bal Chauhan and Raakesh Agarvwal, besides stalwarts like Tarun Tahiliani, Ashish Soni, Varun Bahl and Manish Arora.

“We had met Hadida at the Paris Fashion Week and he expressed his wish to come down for our Week. He came, had a look around and gave us a list of the guys he wanted at the fair in September,” says Sumeet Nair, executive director, Fashion Design Council of India.

Incidentally, some of the senior designers, who are on the FDCI board of directors, have been complaining that Hadida had been given a recommendation list before his visit, which closed the door for other aspirants. Hadida, who owns the high-end boutique L’Eclaireur, apparently visited the selected designers’ stall, meticulously went over their work and gave them pointers for Paris. “He is a man of few words, but he did tell me that he liked my detailing and was looking for a designer who did clothes that suited the European market, but with an Indian twist,” says Sekhose, 30.

Chauhan, who has his platter full with a number of showings at international events this year, says, “He dropped in at my stall after my show and said he liked what he saw, particularly a few items from my autumn-winter 2007 and spring-summer 2008 lines. He gave me his word right there about showing in Tranoi. Later, I got to hear about it from the FDCI as well.”

Chauhan will be taking his spring-summer 2009 collection to Paris, comprising a blend of women’s westernwear, including summer jackets, dresses and skirts.

Most of the designers will be funding their own shows and the costs are pretty steep. However, the FDCI has tentatively earmarked Rs 25 lakh for the event, including approximately Rs 5 lakh each for three new designers and Rs 10 lakh for ramp decoration.

“We want everyone to have a fair chance, which is why we thought it made sense to sponsor the guys who are just starting out,” says designer Bobby Grover, part of the board of directors, FDCI.

Glastonbury Schmastonbury: it is much harder to dress for a literary festival than a music one. For one, Vogue hasn’t produced a guide to dressing for Hay. Connected to this is the fact that, while music festivals are now widely accepted to be great fashion shows in a field - with the cannier high-street outlets producing annual “festival collections” generally based on whatever Kate Moss, Keira Knightley or Sienna Miller wore last summer - literary festivals have yet to be blessed with that kind of style credibility.

But that is not to say that they do not have a defining look. Far from it. If the look for music festivals can be summed up now as “Topshop, with wellingtons”, for literary festivals it is “White Stuff, with a Cath Kidston rainhat”.

This is, by and large, an older, generally metropolitan and culturally aware audience. And while they may not be spinning around a muddy field in Ugg boots, a floral slip dress and Wayfarer sunglasses, they will be traipsing through said field in layered tops, cropped or elaborately decorated wellingtons (so as to differentiate them from the kids’ traditional versions), a long cable-knit jumper (chic and flattering, you know) and an inevitable pashmina. There may even be a rugby shirt or two on show.

It is always in the outdoors, ideally in group events, that the British display their most characteristic traits: determinedly eating sandwiches on the beach, despite the blowing wind and rain; walking their dogs in the park under a thunderstorm; the annual return to a music festival despite last year’s flooding and ensuing outbreak of trench foot (you might notice a theme here). With a British literary festival you get examples of all of the above because it is essentially like a music festival, but with the age group that does dog walking and organised picnics.

Interestingly, though, despite repeated lessons from the past and the wisdom that should come with age, only the smug few come prepared, clothing-wise. Dogs, packed sandwiches and books to be autographed - those are in abundance; proper raincoats, warm jumpers and rainproof footwear - these are apparently left at home, despite even Jimmy Carter’s secret service folk knowing that when in Wales, one always brings wellies - yes, even in May.

Thus, the most popular look at Hay this year is one that we shall call “Making-do Chic”, with an emphasis on the “making do”. The blue Hay festival anorak is by far the most popular coat on the site, with the waterproof poncho that came with copies of the Observer sold at the festival a worthy second. The stall selling logoed sweatshirts and similar warm tops is doing a trade that can only be called “roaring”, meaning that the brand words “Hay festival” achieve a level of sartorial ubiquity that would make Tommy Hilfiger weep with envy.

A similarly English trait reflected in the style is that of maintaining good cheer, despite the rain. This can be seen in the self-pleasing dashes of colour, often hidden beneath the otherwise cerebrally sober and monotone outfits: Julian Barnes’s striped socks under his dark suit; the Guardian’s Matthew Fort wearing his fire engine-red socks worn with his grey ensemble; Christopher Hitchens’ decidedly impractical, if commendably optimistic, white suit. Hitchens may have been as blustery as the weather in his talk at the weekend, and close to self-parodic in his virulent atheism, but his suit made him look almost messianic. It was an interesting case of style contradicting form and content.

But the most British, most impractical and most optimistic trend is one that perhaps should have been foreseen: never mind Uggs in Glastonbury mud, try Crocs in Hay-on-Wye puddles. Worn with socks, of course.