Here’s what it’s like to be in the Jolie/Bisset Cult, the members of which are called Jacquelinas: It’s great. You are constantly clothed in soothing neutrals. You NEVER spill on yourself. You have an endless supply of giant dark sunglasses behind which you are inscrutable and, if not French, possessed of a name that is technically a French word. Your hair is never in your eyes. It is always effortlessly brushed back from your face, and yet you never look as if someone surprised you right before you were about to wash your face. You are given, upon acceptance as a Jacquelina, a gorgeous cognac shoulder bag. You own all your own jewelry, and it is all real. Your lipgloss is subtle, your manicures are left to your own discretion, and you never stopped wearing pointy-toed heels. You never sweat. If you wrinkle or crinkle, it is intentional. And you’ve secretly destroyed the lives of several men, all of whom richly deserved it. The initiation ritual involves rubbing expensive face cream into your décolletage while drinking a chilled glass of incredibly expensive white wine. I regret to inform you, the waiting list is very long.
