From the Windows at Saks
Well, I’m home. And one of the great things I learned about Texas on my SXSW excursion may answer a question loads of you have posed re: repelling in severe heat. The answer is, wear whatever the shit you want. Bikini, naked, denim underwear, nothing can save your head from the perils of frizz you didn’t know not even keratin treatments can repel. It’s like looking at hair that has been in perpetual state of electrocution and then feeling weird that it’s on your head. Fun, really. And now for the window I stood inside in cahoots with Saks and Christian Louboutin to celebrate a certain red sole’s birthday last Thursday.
Celebrations typically call for makeshift hats made from stool cushions and so that’s what is happening here. Scattered around me, capsule collection shoesthat look great paired with one another but even better mix-n-matched.
Whoops, band-aid fail. I’m only human, people. And back to the sentiment attached to standing inside a window: it’s like being trapped in a small dollhouse with little to no air circulation while people watch you try things on and snap photos, and you say funny things but no one can hear you so you laugh and they don’t and all the sudden you feel like you’re back at square A: a place where you’d practice bad jokes that were actually quite good on anyone who’d listen and…crickets.
The crowd goes wild.
Just kidding, they don’t, they just stand dumbfounded wondering why there’s a lady in a window spreading her arms in homage to the return of Titanic to the big screen. In things that do, however, go wild: my FUPA. It is, after all, wearing McQueen.
Then the party ends and I have my hash tag Carrie Bradshaw moment in layers and layers of sartorial mille-feuille, waiting for a Russian man to collect me for dinner only to fall asleep. I have a hunch about that particular Russian man going back to that fancy hotel quite early, seeing the jet-lagged freak in a dress so big, the lines of flotation device vs. clothe are heavily skewed, and running the other way. I’ll save the rest of this theory for another time though. Enjoy more Louboutin paraphanalia here.