There's something ineffably erotic about this 'style' that I think is very difficult to condense into a coherent look unless it comes naturally, a la nymphet. I always think of Lolita as vaguely unkempt, feral and wearing rumpled (perhaps oversized too) and not necessarily sexy clothes. The teenage Dolores of the latter part of the book is perfectly evoked here:
"Her complexion was now that of any vulgar untidy high school girl who applies shared cosmetics with grubby fingers to an unwashed face and does not mind what soiled texture, what pustulate epidermis comes in contact with her skin. Its smooth tender bloom had been so lovely in former days, so bright with tears, when I used to roll, in play, her tousled head on my knee. A coarse flush had now replaced that innocent fluorescence. What was locally known as a "rabbit cold" had painted with flaming pink the edges of her contemptuous nostrils. As in terror I lowered my gaze, it mechanically slid along the underside of her tensely stretched bare thigh – how polished and muscular her legs had grown! She kept her wide-set eyes, clouded-glass gray and slightly bloodshot, fixed upon me, and I saw the stealthy thought showing through them that perhaps after all Monica was right, and she, orphan Lo, could expose me without getting penalized herself. How wrong I was. How mad I was! Everything about her was of the same exasperating impenetrable order – the strength of her shapely legs, the dirty sole of her white sock, the thick sweater she wore despite the closeness of the room, her wenchy smell, and especially the dead end of her face with its strange flush and freshly made-up lips. Some of the red had left stains on her front teeth, and I was struck by a ghastly recollection – the evoked image not of Monique, but of another young prostitute in a bell-house, ages ago, who had been snapped up by somebody else before I had time to decide whether her mere youth warranted my risking some appalling disease, and who had just such flushed prominent pommettes and a dead maman,and big front teeth, and a bit of dingy red ribbon in her country-brown hair."
Nabokov's Lolita - who is my favourite incarnation of the archetype - wouldn't bother with all this artificial ruffling and fuss and lace. She is more grubby than that, and all the better for it.