Folks spoke of a prophecy written long ago in the ancient foundations of the earth. It was foretold that in a time of sartorial crisis- when elegance had departed from the land, when style despaired, and chicness just sat in a corner and whimpered- the immortals would send one of their own. It was said that by her perfect bathing suit and superior powers of accessorizing they would know her, and that she would shape the destiny of mankind, and prod them gently back on track.
Lucinda had always suspected she was a goddess. (Or at the very least a minor deity of some kind.) So she assumed her most heroic stance, and ran fingers through her tousled hair. She’d just be off to slay the twin gorgons of Frumpiness and Fugitude, and then it would probably be time for a spot of lunch….