The Price of Serving Cunt at Fashion Week
Thoughts on PnL (Packing for Prada & Losing All My Money) and a radical transparency experiment: the real cost of attending Fashion Month.
“I’m ruined!”
This is the phrase my money person Shea, aka My Sheala, hears from me biannually upon my return from fashion month.
But every season, convinced by colleagues (you know who you are,) I defy my better judgment, at the very last hour, and attend Paris and Milan fashion week. The reality of existing as a multi-hyphenate in this industry, being a stylist, fashion editor, substacker, and KOL (a designation that I have only just earned, with a definition that I have only just learned– adding to the Brain Matter Lexicon asap), is that I really do need to show face and remind the girls that I’m still out here snatching wigs and standing on necks. Fashion is a front-facing business. Schmoozing, small talking, meeting with PRs and photographers, going to dinners and parties… it’s all a part of the gig. And before you start playing the world’s smallest violin, consider two facts: firstly, for two full months out of the year, I work 24-hour shifts, every single day. I am never not working. And secondly, I, personally, must pay for the privilege.
The math is impossible.
Not just in terms of justifying dollars spent (this from a woman who truly believes that size 42 Chanel flats from Heathrow’s Terminal 3 are actually free once you factor in rarity) but in the logistical contortions required to pack for 20 days away at the fashion olympics.
So while there is a very good chance that my radical transparency policy demystifies this whole access thing and ends up being detrimental to my ability to broker the deals that make fashion week possible for me, keeping it real is something I’ve always promised to do with you here (as if I could avoid it if I tried). So, let’s dive into the dirty details, shall we?