The richter scale of fashion normsThursday, March 27 2014
Dancing daily between my feel-safe sartorial habits (ripped blues, a sloppy tee, any sneaker on the style block) and the desire to bring from runway to real life the latest ideas formulated by the greatest names out there has done nothing for my schizophrenic tendencies. High on high fashion, one minute; only willing to wear street, the next, I do see how the movers and shakers of our industry might, in time, loose touch with reality altogether.
Open-toe mules by ten-degrees, for instance, might not be your most pragmatic course of action when running around a capital city (in this case, Paris, meaning zero tolerance for the unconventional). Then again, when the calendar says fashion week, common sense flies out the window and is replaced instead by a new benchmark of normality.
You then have three options. You could (A), log into the weather app on your favourite Apple companion and plan accordingly, using sensible items from your closet. Not bloody likely (congratulations, if this is you, for you are not a fashion wanker).
You might (B) drop by your local Zara store to handpick the latest in new season essentials that are yet to land Avenue Montaigne. Predictable, but totally pardonable. You are mortal, after all. And only a semi-wanker for cutting corners.
Or, (C) you may choose the obnoxious route, and beg your favourite PR friend to send over that fresh off-the-catwalk pair of wide-leg cropped pants that ‘totes have your name on them’ (major #shitfashiongirlssay moment).
Yup, you got me.
Do you really blame me though? I mean, green windowpane-checked culottes? Even just saying it is fun!
I simply had to.
Now, where are my superstars?