In “WHYYYYYY, Christina Hendricks, WHYYYYY” news, here’s Christina Hendricks at a Tacori party in Hollywood last night looking like she’s ready to serve canapés to the guests while telling them their future. That is some slycic cater waiter messiness.
There are three solid NOs here. NO to that turban that looks like a misshapen, melting egg yolk. NO to that business casual blouse that does nothing for her magnificent chichis. NO to those pants. From the neck down, she looks like a volunteer usher at a community theater whose uniform is made up of her memaw’s go-to church shirt and some too-wide-legged, too-high-waisted pants her dad used to wear in the 70s. From the neck up, she thinks she’s giving us Sally Field in Soapdish, but that floppy turban hat makes her look like she just entered a pie baking contest after those bridge club bitches kept making fun of her cooking.
I’m all for a turban, but if Christina was going to wear one, she should’ve paired it with a beaded caftan, arched her back and widened her eyes at the camera while saying, “I ‘m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille…”