Dear Taylor Swift : Stop.
Just, please, stop with the retro tops, floor-length Andrews-Sisters gowns, red lips, bows, flowers and the whole second coming of Audrey Hepburn if she had a baby with Princess Grace vibe.
We get it: Unlike Ke$ha, you wear pants. Unlike Rihanna, you wear shirts. No, wait, blouses. You are a young lady of class and taste and timeless grace. You are a style icon of unending class. But now your look is starting to spread beyond your four walls—you know, the ones papered with tiny ivy leaves and teacups.
Whatever strain of adorable appropriateness you carry in your veins, it's gone airborne and mutated, attacking Carrie Underwood in a death cloud of chiffon and foil leaves.
Judging from the bodice on Underwood's Reem Acra gown, this new virus picked up some of the DNA from the cast of Stars On Ice before attacking. This madness must stop, Taylor, before an epidemic hits Nashville and Kellie Pickler emerges wearing a high-necked schoolmarm blouse and a ball skirt made of nude lycra and live chickadees.
In the meantime, we may as well vote: Who had the better floral ball gown?