That young lady plans to start 7th Grade in "jeans and a white embroidered shirt from Abercrombie & Fitch." Adds the Washington Post,

Starting middle school is a turning point in the lives of many girls. In addition to the thrill of having their first lockers, they quickly transition from allowing their moms to buy them "cute coordinated outfits" at department chains to doing their own shopping at a handful of stores their friends have deemed cool.

Or not. I remember clearly the shame of starting Middle School in Gap Kids, my growth spurt (such as it was) still three years away. Other girls arrived, sleek and glamorous in black stovepipe pants, or effortless in frayed flares and Abercrombie button-downs.

But the thrill of "back-to-school" clothes never dies. Sure, maybe you've lost the chance to impress everyone with new height or a new guise, but the sense of renewal is eternal. Fall is the sartorial New Year, and not just in the High Holy Days sense. There is, always, a sense of opportunity and reinvention. In the past, it's when I've decided to spend the year based on Sylvia Beach, in T-straps and cardigans; or, later, "early-80's Harlequin Romance heroine pre-makeover." This year I'm basing my look on Angela Lansbury in Bedknobs and Broomsticks. Even if working from home doesn't exactly justify a sharp new wardrobe, I can't resist the lure of at least one piece of corduroy or plaid.

"When people think of Kristina Batal, I want them to think, 'Oh, she's someone you can count on. She has a great fashion sense. She's a good friend,' " said Kristina, 12, who is excited — nervous-excited — about starting seventh grade at Robert Frost Middle School in Fairfax on Tuesday.

Of course, Kristina Batal will learn, one day, that the clothes aren't magic. That they should be for fun and self-expression rather than disguise and talisman. And that they'll never have the power they seem to right now. That if you show up in an ill-fitting flannel dress and feel conspicuously awful and babyish, you can still grow into a confident, happy woman who doesn't feel embarrassed when she walks into a room of her peers. But that there are always fresh starts - and really awesome cardigans.

Flip-Flop Fashionistas Find Their First-Day Way [Washington Post]

Ruth La Ferla in today's The New York Times points out how Stevie's iconic style influenced people (even people like me, who lacked cable television until the age of 21) and designers.

Anna Sui, who dedicated an entire collection to Ms. Nicks in the late '90s and turns out Stevie-inspired handkerchief hems almost every season, admires her consistency. "She's the iconic California woman," Ms. Sui observed. "Everyone has their version of her."

These days Ms. Nicks is the inspiration for Web sites like gypsymoon.com, which offers Nicks-style top hats and shawls; and enchantedmirror.com, which sells tambourines, fringed shawls and a musky fragrance in homage to the singer. In February, Jill Stuart paraded Nicksian feathers, leather and lace on her fashion runway.

Yeah, I have handkerchief hemmed skirts, a couple of fringed shawls (one in burnt velvet with beaded fringe) and even a couple of feathered hats. Don't judge me.

Her initial wardrobe stylings were something she developed in concert with her designer Margi Kent.

At the time, her brief to Margi Kent, who still designs much of her wardrobe, was to create "something urchinlike out of ‘Great Expectations' or ‘A Tale of Two Cities,' " a chiffonlike, raggedy skirt that would still look beautiful with black velvet platform boots.

"We came up with the outfit: a Jantzen leotard, a little chiffon wrap blouse, a couple of little short jackets, two skirts and boots," Ms. Nicks said as she reminisced in her suite at the Waldorf Towers last week. "That gave us our edge."

Velvet platforms, leotards with long skirts and short jackets basically describes my wardrobe circa 1995.

Hers has changed slightly over the years, though.

She was limber enough, though, to lay out on the carpet three variations of her favorite stage turnout: a cutaway jacket, a ruched and ruffled dress and chunky boots. Missing was the airy shawl that is part of her concert uniform.

Yes, yes, and yes. I might as well give into this.

But Stevie Nicks didn't set out to be an iconic dresser, per se — she just wanted to hide some version of herself away from the world when she started touring.

"I'll be very, very sexy under 18 pounds of chiffon and lace and velvet," Ms. Nicks promised herself as a teenager. "And nobody will know who I really am."

And, according to La Ferla, no one really still does.

Today she remains a woman under wraps, her legend as carefully tended as her wardrobe, which she stores in her home in Los Angeles. That legend encompasses the shaky vicissitudes of her romantic life - fans still speculate about the nature of her relationship with Lindsey Buckingham, Fleetwood Mac's guitarist and her long-ago lover - and her risen-from-the-ashes saga of drug abuse and rehabilitation.

Yes, goodness knows why anyone would be not keen to talk about 20-year-old romances and or addiction.

Stevie's out doing a press tour to promote her new concert CD and DVD, which is kind of ironic for someone who tells the AP's Nakesa Mumbi Moody that she hates technology.

"I believe that computers have taken over the world. I believe that they have in many ways ruined our children. I believe that kids used to love to go out and play," Nicks says in her famously smoky voice.

"I believe that social graces are gone because manners are gone because all people do is sit around and text. I think it's obnoxious."

You might imagine, she's also not a fan of music pirates.

People are stealing our music. That's all there is to it. In the old days ... they would help you to develop into the artist that they knew you were going to be. In the last 10 years, the record companies don't have the money to do that. I don't know what the answer is to it. The only thing I can say to people is, "Buy music, do not steal music." If you do, you won't have any new music later on.

And don't even think about pulling your cell phone out of a big bag, even if it does match your Stevie-outfit.

I'm gonna put my hand on your hand and say, "Turn it off, for now. Just give me an hour, of you, I really want an hour of just you, and your heart. I don't want you talking to someone else while we're having lunch."

I'd give her an hour of my time, but I guess I can admit I'd probably rather go shopping.

Still Dressing for Stevie [New York Times]
Q&A: Stevie Nicks Explains Why She's A Technophobe [Associated Press]

Earlier: Help Me Choose An Outfit To Keep George Bush Away From My Womb

No question, anyone who's worked in retail sees it all: people trying to return worn things, stained things, torn things, battered shoes — and generally with a strong sense of self-righteous grievance. I was once at a Gap Body and watched a woman brazenly return a bra that she had obviously worn, washed, and put in the dryer — because she claimed it had shrunk spontaneously.

To some folks, I'm convinced this is some kind of deep game: a means of sharpening their using wits and guile. And that's to say nothing of those amoral souls who shamelessly buy, wear to events, and return without a qualm. Others regard buying, trying, deciding and returning as a valid means of shopping — fair enough in a large store, but hard on a smaller establishment's inventory. Then there are the guilty returns: stripped of the glamor of store lights and surroundings or the euphoria of friends' praise, people often blanch at the realization of what they've spent; that, much as they want to be the person in the floor-length velvet coat, they're not; that they have three of the same thing at home. Sometimes, in the cold light of your own bedroom, without a saleswoman's rationalizations, you realize something really is too small, or that the right underwear/judicious hemming/accessorizing really can't work miracles. Or there are those shoppers, initially delighted with a purchase, who return sheepishly the next day, deflated by a husband or friend's disapprobation.

I am one of those who finds returning difficult: I am normally a decisive shopper and am mad at myself if I end up with something against my better judgment. I also feel a tremendous sense of obligation to the salespeople who help me and hate to imply they've failed in any way, or admit that I was so weak-willed as to not know my own mind. I have made the best of more than one bad purchase rather than deal with the trauma of a return, and then curse myself again for a neurotic coward. The sad truth is, in any case, that an increasing number of small stores have store-credit only policies, so it can be impossible to undo your folly completely. In my case, too, there's often an organization deficit: I am bad at keeping track of receipts and the mechanics of returning an internet purchase are completely beyond me.

The solution is obviously careful and thoughtful shopping, budgeting, and if necessary, prompt and courteous returns. But such is not human nature — and for a real shopaholic, like those in the Post, maybe it's got to be a gradual learning curve; stopping cold-turkey would simply be too painful? That said, however embarrassed I might be to face a clerk, I would be twice as humiliated to have my boyfriend do the dirty work. Even if I had bought a dress final sale three months in advance knowing my body was going to be completely different. Cause, you know, that would be totally reasonable.

a href="http://www.nypost.com/seven/11142008/gossip/pagesix/a_job_for_guys_138567.htm">Madison Avenue Stores See Huge Increase In Luxury Goods Returns [NY Post]