Fashion week mornings are not like regular mornings. Usually, up at the same time, I’m in my t-shirt on my couch, steaming cup of tea in hand and working on my computer. Fashion weeks, I’m in the shower, eyes half open, hair in my mouth, in my t-shirt, steaming cup of tea in ha….. ouh merde.
With my cup….. in the shower. Voilà, this is the sort of thing that comes up during fashion weeks.
Oui. These are the mornings the doctors will say that I have been diagnosed with exhaustion, I already have 236 e-mails to write, 12 days of letters to open, my mom, who I have to give a pep-talk to on the other line because she’s been hunting me down for however many days, and I needed to have left 25 minutes ago. And on top of all that, gotta be chic.
But not only chic. Chic-cool-hip-classy-sexy-trendy-without being too much because, well, the times, they are a changin’, and you just can’t exaggerate like you used to.
And of course comfortable. Because even if I, myself, have the tendency to forget it, I take photos. Which means I walk, I move, I bend over, I break my mouth open, and I run… Because I’m always late.
And yet, in this rather sectioned off socio-cultural backgroup (slimness appreciated, scan the outfit north to south, south to north, and there’s that wit that just kills in the early morning (“Oh… Hello… They still haven’t found your bags?”)), what is style? I should have developed the art of putting together the perfect outfit a long time ago.
I’m talking about simple outfits, easy to live-in, with a little detail that brings it all together, beautiful, simple, perfect.
If you see what I’m saying…
Mais non. Not at all. I get out of the shower, still mug in hand, sometimes with some conditioner still in my hair (yeah, that too, happens often enough). I get an idea for a great outfit. I look for the pieces, and then I remember that the southern hemisphere of my outfit is in the laundry. I try to find a different outfit, put some things together, there are a few ohs and a few ahs but nothing is quite as great as my great outfit. So I start trying on everything I have in mind. Nothing goes. I take care to put on a pretty spectacular show, throwing all my clothes to the ceiling around in circles and create the type 5 hysterical atmosphere of the backstage of a runway show (but all by myself.). I’m sweating here. I feel like I need to get back in the shower. Calm yourself. Breathe. Breathe. Inhale. Exhale.
I finally hunt down a fine outfit, normal (= boring) and I’m off, but of course, not without forgetting to put make up on, do my hair, and bring all my invites to the runway shows.
Oui, voilà, voilà. All of the daily neglects of the Parisian summed up in a few lines. It’s quite simple in the end.
No but look at these girls. Are they not pure chic-cool-hip-classy-sexy-trendy-without being too much? Each one in her own different style. A pair of colorful shoes, a pair of fingerless gloves, or a pair of shorts. For goodness sake, it all make sense, no?
Alors, otherwise, I have something to tell you guys and I’ll certainly talk about it more later because all of this has been a rather interesting little adventure… but for the moment, I am too stressed out to talk about it, and also because I never know how these things turn out. It’s kind of a big deal… I dunno.
If it is as they say it is, today, I have my portrait in the Libération.** Yep, on the last page. But my goodness my goodness. I’m not going to be able to see it before I get to Paris around 3:00 or so, and I can tell you very honestly that I am going to book it to the first newsstand with some fear. I really have the impression that it will give a good sense of… Wait. We’ll talk about this again later. In any case, now you know, and if you feel like giving it a quick look…
Voilà, that’s all for today. And now, time for me to go get dressed. ahahaha!
Translation : Tim Padraic Sullivan
**Translator’s note: The Libération is a daily newspaper that was founded by Jean-Paul Sartre (pretty cool right off the bat, no?). It’s right up there with Le Monde and Figaro. The last page serves as a who’s who of Parisian culture.