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Photo By Kevin Sullivan/The Orange County Register Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week at Smashbox Studios in Culver City, October 2006 |
am a fashion fraud. True, I have always had a unique style, but whether it has been fashionable is the question. Just ask my mother about the squirrel dress. At the important age of 10 years old, I insisted that she buy me the most important fashion item of my life: a maroon polyester shirtdress adorned with light brown squirrels. Believe me when I say it was beyond groovy. Unfortunately, my mother did not concur. The battle was so heated that she placed me on a clothing allowance, so that she would never have to take me shopping ever again. The problem was I never had much money, so I became a frugal fashionista. And when there was no money for that vintage piece or designer sale item, I just relinquished fashion altogether. Even though adulthood has brought me jobs with income and a generous husband, I continue to live in the land of the deal. The designer pieces I own are thanks to gifts, sheer luck and hours of complete obsession.
Yet there I was in New York City last week with an invite in hand to attend a Fashion Week show for BCBGMAXAZRIA. I could brag and attribute it to my fashion column fame, but I cannot lie — hubby’s cousin designs bras and panties and scored me a ticket the night before the show. Complete panic overcame me as I stared at my dirty, travel wardrobe. There was no time to buy, clean or rearrange. The black bodysuit, long shorts and silver ballet slippers would have to do the job. Enticing, I know.
Arriving a few minutes before 10 (yes, that is a.m.), I ran into the tent marked Mercedes-Benz Fashion Week, bumping elbows (across the room) with Nigel Barker from America’s Next Top Model (gorgeous!), Jamie-Lynn Sigler from The Sopranos (Meadow, are you alive?) and, of course, Vogue’s editor, Anna Wintour. Queen Anna sat in the front row of the first half of the runaway. Sporting a flowery shift dress and her Louise Brooks bob, she seemed chatty and friendly with her peeps. That is until the lights went down. Then it became just like the movies.
A quiet hush came over the crowd. Queen Anna donned her sunglasses and frozen expression. The Ice Queen had arrived. Loud thumping music played as the super skinny models strutted down the runway wearing jumpsuits and dresses in neutral black and gray with an occasional pop of orange or electric blue.
While the toga-esque clothing was fun, the best show was watching the Queen and her various head turns. Some models got a full turn as she watched them walk from the front of the runway. Others got a mere glance as they walked past her. Searching for a pattern, I found none. How could I? Every model looked exactly like Gwyneth Paltrow, I kid you not.
And within a flash, the show was over. Max Azria came out and took a bow. Everyone stood, not for a standing ovation, but to rush towards the exit. I quickly lost track of Queen Anna — she most likely escaped through a secret hatch.
As I was leaving, a woman came up to me and gave me the once-over. “Gorgeous,” she said. I looked around, not sure whom she meant. Her stare continued.
Like a squirrel hoarding nuts, I decided to take it. “Thank you,” I replied. I could use a good dose of fashion love for the upcoming winter collection.
