You’re getting ready to go to a Halloween party and you’re going as Axl Rose. You’ve got your bandanna on and a t-shirt and you’re struggling to get your leather pants zipped up.

They fit okay a couple of years ago when you wore them to a Thanksgiving dinner where you brought a hand-crafted turkey centerpiece made out of Popsicle sticks and colored paper. But now you feel like a bursting leather sausage. So you say, Fuck this, and you go find your other leather pants, the looser ones, but the waist is tight and the rest is too big.

So now you don’t even want to be Axl. Fuck him and fuck everything. You’re a fat whale with no reason to live. None. You have reached a precipice; you should take your leather pants and jump off it. Or if not a precipice, then a milestone. The one where you turn your back on leather pants and relax in a cotton floral housecoat, your legs mapped with varicose veins and your swollen feel stuffed into slipper socks with the non-skid soles.

You can go around like that old lady in a (trigger warning!) Woody Allen film croaking “I was once a great beauty” to anyone who’ll listen.

But then you pull yourself together. You have to go to the party. Your partner is going as Slash. You’ve RSVP’d. So you decide to default to (trigger warning!) Slutty Axl. As long as you have fishnets you can be Slutty Anything. So you put on the fishnet tights and find the tartan skirt you promised to send to a friend in her 20s because Grandma Schoolgirl is just not your preferred self-image, even for Halloween.

Now you’ve pulled it out. So to speak. You still feel a little tragic. You had to compromise, and you know that you’re a pregnant-looking orca but at least now you can wear lipstick and mascara, Because Slut. You jab the mascara in your eye but still valiantly walk out the door on time.

You get to the party and have a drink, feeling your self-hatred fade away like a dream as you behold a girl dressed like Mia from Pulp Fiction, with a bloody nose and a giant syringe sticking out of her chest.

I was up late watching TV with my husband when I learned that Chrissie Hynde has formed a new band.   To my horror, she was playing second fiddle, so to speak, to her new beloved, JP Jones, an annoying Welshman half her age.

In case anyone failed to notice the age difference, she warbles it in the song “Perfect Lover.” (I found my perfect lover, but he’s only half my age…) In fact, she and this guy have released an entire album of songs about their doomed relationship. Evidently, Jones wants to raise a family and at 58, Chrissie has hung up her childbearing spurs.

My husband brought home the new CD the other day, and our son asked about it. I explained, “It’s Chrissie Hynde and some douche in a hat.” My husband begged to differ, in a sharp tone. He had seen them perform that afternoon and Chrissie had autographed his CD.

Still, it’s awful. Not just awful, but so awful that I longed to jump out of the car when we had to listen to it on a ninety minute road trip. All the songs are “nakedly” autobiographical, with lyrics like “I’m old, you’re not” ” you surprised me in the bar when I decided to take you home.” It’s like reading the diary of someone you admire and finding a bunch of LOL’s and smiley face thingies.

Poor Chrissie. She is so besotted with this douche that she’s lost all judgment. These songs prove beyond a doubt that a little ambiguity is vital where pop songs are concerned, unless you’re a poet like Hank Williams Sr. It was so embarrassing to listen to this shit, I had to cover my face to endure it.

Patti Smith got herself a cute young guy and let him play in her band, in the background. Not only that, he was a babe. Chrissie, call Patti to find out how it’s done, before that douche empties your bank account!

I think the problem is that fashion has become too fashionable. For years, fashion wasn’t fashionable. Today fashion is so fashionable that it’s almost embarrassing to say you’re part of fashion. All the parodies of it. All the dreadful magazines. That has destroyed it as well, because everybody thinks fashion is attainable.

Did you follow that? I’m not sure if I did, but if she’s saying that fashion is now available to the masses and as such it has reached a saturation point where everyone is decked out in the same “It Items.” then I totally agree.

For fall, it’s shaggy fur coats and vests, pseudo biker crap, lots of leather, sky-high heels, pre-shredded jeans and t-shirts, multiple chains, more leather leggings. We’ll all look like high-priced prostitutes and leftovers from Dallas with big padded shoulders and gaudy bling.

I’m already sick of it! It’s so tired and trite. Why even bother?

I propose three strong new looks for autumn/winter: The Saint, The Nun, and the Lady Mobster.

Christian Lacroix knows what he’s doing. This dress should inspire us to make our own saint regalia with old tablecloths and fabric flowers.   For headgear, maybe some old flamenco hair combs with lace veils.

Michelle’s gorgeous veil by Moschino surely put that Pope in his place by outdoing him in drama. Haha, Pope Ratty, now what? Her look reminds me of how beautiful women can add a new dimension of sexuality to Nun garb. If the black lace is too solemn for you, here’s a different take on Nunwear by Lust Designs.   Penny, the designer, is a doll.

Finally, there’s the Lady Mobster. Janet Jackson epitomized this look at her brother’s memorial. I have never seen her look more beautiful or commanding. She was perfection, dressed and styled by Versace.

Elegant, ladylike, tough, sexy, a look that says Don’t Fuck With Me.

There you have it, Sister Wolf’s three looks for the modern woman who’s ready to move beyond Boho fringe, rompers and Faux Rocker Chick dishevelment.