Voxfrock’s favorite fashionistocrat may or not be almost an octogenarian. Karl “The Kaiser” Lagerfeld’s birthdate is listed, depending on the source, as 1938, 1935 or 1933 which plots him, by our maths, at 75, 78, or a whisker short of 80. In an April interview with Paris Match, Mr. Lagerfeld blamed the decades of speculation and jumpy data on his mum and her mischief or inability to write a “5” distinguishable from a “3” or an “8”. But he is certain now, he said, now Mother’s shuffled off, that he was actually born on September 10, 1935.
Well. Yeah. Right. Voxfrock’s crackshot Bollocks Detector says the likelihood Mr. Lagerfeld’s actual age is 77, is calculable between 2.3 and 4.1 per cent. (Trust us, we are frocketscientists.) In fact we don’t actually give a flying fig how many years the venerable Kaiser has trod this mortal coil. Is he 77? 80? 103? Duzzen madder. We adore the puffed-up, arrogant, occasionally appallingly politically incorrect, ingenius and ultimately unmatchable maverick of a man whatever his age. We faff on about it here for no reason other than it is intriguing. We may all, every vain and frocky one of us, be still pussy-footing and telling porkies about our age at 80 too. Like. Good grief, right?
But, we digress. It’s Wednesday, Mr. Lagerfeld is one day closer to making history as fashion’s most active, highly influential octogenarian and in spurious celebration, we offer this nutshelled observation plumbed from the Voxfrock Vault and prettied up with some recent pictures of our favourite chap. St. Karl.
Stand far enough back and Karl “the Kaiser” Lagerfeld looks remarkably well pickled for a man in his “70s”. Slim as a whippet, smooth as a baby’s proverbial . . .
Chanel’s legendary eccentric is – depending on your cynicism and proximity to his elite inner circle – either a patchwork of little fashion “illusions” meant to disguise the elderly gent within, or a bizarre billboard of his own thickening tangle of vanities and insecurities.
It’s not the Parisian thing to tattle, but it’s all but certain the divine KL has not yet, not ever, sought significant surgical help for his youth fixation despite that, in his diet book released after he lost 42 kilograms so he could slip into designer Hedi Slimane’s trousers, he recommended women should do so if they are unhappy with the size or droop of their breasts.
At Cannes in May.
Photo: Marc Piasecki/FilmMagic
The jury’s still out on the Botox and fillers, but what you see is, ostensibly, pretty much what Mr. Lagerfeld hasn’t carefully covered up. Minimal crow’s feet and eye-bags, for example. If they’re there, they’re blacked-out behind perpetually present sunglasses. And, minimal wrinkles – they’re smoothed slick under trowelled-on slap. No spidery capillaries, ropy veins, liver spots, or crepey-drapey-droopy whatsits either. It’s all tucked up snug inside tight pants, high-heeled boots, stiff collars thick as whiplash neck braces, rows of knuckleduster pinkie rings and those perennial fingerless leather gloves.
Is there a lesson here for us all? Particularly, say, for similarly youth-challenged gents? Let’s see.
No.
Janice Breen Burns, jbb@voxfrock.com.au
