Something happened to me today that has never happened before. One of our young, hipster staffers regarded me thoughtfully in the hallway and announced that I am a snappy dresser. I almost fainted.

It was like the Olympics, when the commentator announces that the winner of the gold medal has overcome almost insurmountable odds to achieve the endorsement contract that will now assuredly come her way.

Let's watch that video retrospective, shall we?

As a kid I had the fashion sense of Elton John -- without the budget. I wore whatever outrageous gaudy, sparkly, animal-print things I liked, often at the same time. There are very few surviving photographs of me from my school days, and the world is safer for that.

I went casual in T-shirts decorated with state-of-the-art iron-on technology that I can still smell in my mind's nose. These T-shirts are turning up again as ironic retro artifacts on young people today. I never thought for a moment I would regret the loss of my "May The Force Be With You" shirt or wish I had bought "Mr. Bubble" back in '79. I still wouldn't wear them, but I could sell them in a boutique for like $40 apiece to kids who don't realize how hideous they are.

Then, in the '80s ... well, watch a Molly Ringwald movie and you'll have my rap sheet. My prom gowns were prime examples of the faux-Victorian poufy princess vogue. No wonder my parents were at ease and my dates had no trouble keeping their hands to themselves.

But I finally went through "What Not To Wear" rehab and took it to heart and hemline. And the discipline and fitting-room agony are starting to pay off. I am almost never mistaken for poorly upholstered furniture anymore.

Still, I have no desire to be fashionable until fashion comes in from the yard, takes a shower and shows a little respect.

A $200 pair of flipflops is still a pair of flipflops; I don't care if they have gold nuggets and working plasma televisions glued onto them. They don't belong under your graduation gown, at any wedding not held on a beach, and they don't belong in the White House even though they make shoe-bombers easier to spot.

Also, when did velour track suits happen? Velour was a punch line 10 years ago; it was right up there with terry cloth as a classy fabric. (I had both, of course.) And track suits were the exclusive garb of the track team and the line at the early-bird buffet. Now you see them on sleek trophy wives buying artisan cheese. Do they think there will be hurdles in the checkout line?

And, OK, I have to ask: How many people have fallen downstairs because their jeans are four inches longer than their legs? I know I would, but that's probably because I'm hopelessly uncool. I'm so uncool I don't wear jammies outside my home unless I'm sneaking out to steal the neighbor's newspaper.

I'm so uncool I don't expose my arms or feet when the temperature is below 50 degrees -- I'm so uncool I'm warm.

The slob look has spread to hair as well. For years I've watched glamorous stars on talk shows or red carpets and thought, "You'd think with all her money she could afford a hairstyle that doesn't look like someone nailed a sick bird to her head."

I worried that some kind of tragic plague was afflicting all the hairdressers in New York and Hollywood, destroying their hand-eye coordination. Turns out it's all been on purpose!

As the owner of a salon in West Hartford, Conn., (where I lived until I couldn't afford the rent on my hovel) told the Hartford Courant, "People are spending a lot of time to make hair look messy."

If you are spending a lot of time to make your hair look messy, there is something wrong with you. That's like spending a lot of time planting weeds in your lawn.

A professional stylist said of Uma Thurman's Oscar-night 'do, "It takes two hours to get it to look that sloppy."

Dang, Uma -- you can get that in two minutes if you have a friend with a convertible.

If the idea is to rebel against an overly structured and corporate society, or to seem softer and more approachable to men, doesn't it kind of defeat the purpose to spend hours sculpting and arranging your devil-may-care sticky-out tendrils?

When my hair sticks out funny, at least it's honest. I don't have time to make it look that bad just to tell the world "Hey, world, I'm a little wild! I'm funky! I'm a nonconformist, and I may actually have head lice!"

But now that I'm a snappy dresser, maybe I can start setting my own trends.

I'm just sure I've still got an "I'm With Stupid" T-shirt somewhere. I bet it would look good with animal-print velour pants.