Hell is being trapped in a luxury hotel room unable to do more then call room service for porridge and chicken soup. Finally the house doctor came — Sunday morning — sporting a salmon Ralph Lauren sweater, and pronounced that I had strep throat. This childhood aliment that normally has little to do with the adult world floored me. I’m of hearty stock and have plowed through many a minor discomfort, but at one point in my current delirium I almost forgot it was Fashion Week.
While watching Haider Ackermann’s powerful show, all I could fixate on was the hair extensions – like katanas, they sliced their way down the models’ backs. Can I reach out, steal one, and perform hara-kiri in the marble bathtub? Is that possible? I’m already a fashion victim; let’s take it one step further.
Right next door was Tsumori Chisato. I had my head in my lap. Finally the lights dimmed and all my energy went into noticing the bubbly pop prints of childish tigers and dreamy elephants blend with sequins and sailor hats. Don’t even try and convince me she didn’t get inspiration from the musical 42nd Street and hallucinogenic drugs. I stumbled out to my room and Angelina stared blankly at me, wondering if I’d contracted a parasite from the salami I kept in the mini-bar.