my fur is the best, of chinchilla

I rubbed shoulders with the fashion elite today. And Lance Bass. But more so the fashion elite. Because I, darlings, attended a New York Fashion Week show.

Roww!

It was my first one so I guess you can say I popped my fashion show cherry.

Ooo, naughty.

I don’t know how many of you have been privileged enough to stand behind roped-off bars while watching stickly models parade Willow Smith/Bladerunner inspired attire, but it was a fuken blast, let me tell you. Besides the dim lighting, which made any chance I had of spotting Brooklyn Beckham virtually redundant, it was a thoroughly pleasant experience…because it was a thoroughly educational experience. And we all know that saying about fashion shows and education…

So, cue porny music. Here’s Nisrine’s top eight lessons from New York Fashion Week. Bow-chica-bow-wow:

  1. God didn’t make cars to keep them locked in the garage, and God didn’t make your midriff to keep it locked in your overcoat. So if you got it, flaunt it!
  2. Sunglasses don’t just offer protection from outside sun, but from indoor non-sun as well. Huh, who would have thunk it?
  3. Killing animals for fur is cruel. Except when a fashion blogger tells you that they ‘love it on yaw’ – then it is less cruel.
  4. George Costanza and Will.I.Am have encouraged a whole new generation of hat-wearers. Thanks be to you, George and Will.
  5. These boots are made for walking and these coats are made for resting. On your shoulders. Just resting. Not wearing. The arm parts are optional.
  6. Open-toe footwear in -16 degree weather will only affect your health if you think it will.
  7. Chinchillas are crepuscular rodents, slightly larger and more robust than ground squirrels. They are native to the Andes mountains in South America.
  8. I want to be like them. Fashionistas, not chinchillas.

It’s this last lesson that came as the biggest revelation to me.

You see, something happened to me when I was in the ‘mingling room’ waiting for the Control Sector show to start. For a moment, I wanted so desperately to be a part of their world. And by them, I mean the fashion bloggers, fashion students, models, members of the press, talent scouts, buyers. Like them, I too wanted to be getting drunk off Peroni and commending people on their choice of neck bead. I too wanted to be wearing shorts on top of pants and have that be an OK thing to do.

I don’t know if it was the smell of faux-leather but before I knew it, I was. All the fears I’d ever had of being perceived as vain or conceited went out the Gotham Hall windows. You’ll understand. I mean, how many times do we want to check ourselves out as we pass a public reflective surface but decide not to just in case others are looking? Or how many times do we want to take a serious Kim K selfie in public but fear ridicule and so end up taking a silly/sarcastic selfie instead? There’s something a bit vain-y and culturally unacceptable about being into yourself, physically speaking. Here, in this mingling room – where geometrics and stripes come to be friends – vanity was no longer one of the seven sins, but an eleventh commandment. Thou shalt love thy self and be proud.

With my newfound attitude, I asked my cousin to take a paparazzi shot of me in front of the make-shift red carpet banner. I made love to that Samsung camera, gurrl, not caring for a second if people were watching. In fact, I wanted them to be.

Then, I saw the photo.

The grey coat that I’d previously thought was quite trendy, actually ended up looking like a hotel bath robe when photographed. I looked like a pregnant mother-of-seven in a hotel bath robe.

This made me sad.

On the way home, as I gnawed on my oatmeal cookie like a, well, chinchilla, I got to wondering:

Maybe the appalling pregnancy photo was my punishment for judging people I knew nothing about; people who just happened to like strappy heels in winter and Russian fur hats and shorts on top of pants.

Shame on me.

Note to self: research if Lance Bass actually did go to the moon.

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