I suppose my Saturday technically started at 12:01 a.m., at my brother’s apartment in Bushwick, as I sat on his couch waiting for my SIM card to breathe life into his spare phone. It was old and wouldn’t stay charged for more than six hours, but it didn’t have a shattered camera lens as mine now did after my attempt at a fashion week hat trick: leave a show, put on a coat, whine on the phone about my period migraine. Suffice it to say, it didn’t work out and everything was going great. Here’s how the next day went.
Saturday, February 10th, 7:48 a.m.
Friday was so long and I stayed up so late working that I decided to treat myself to an 8:30 a.m. alarm., but I woke up before 8 a.m. due to sleepy delusions that I’d ruined Man Repeller. My subconscious knew we had two stories going live that morning that I had yet to edit.
After fake-sleeping for 42 minutes, I got up, grabbed my computer, and brought it back to bed to work from there, which I sometimes do on the weekends, even though I know I’m not supposed to.
I ‘ve just finished editing and scheduling the stories. I close my laptop and pretend to sleep for five more minutes, then get the hell up because I have to do an outfit recipe for Man Repeller’s Instagram.
I send my boyfriend packing to get us coffees because I don’t want him creeping in the background of my filming and also the thought of him watching stresses me out. The cat can stay though.
I jump in the shower.
10:20 – 11 a.m.
I get dressed on Instagram, which sounds creepy but involves no skin. I end up wearing this:
The answer to my caption is yes.
I do a final edit on another story, email the writer to let her know, then respond to other emails.
Avi comes back with coffees like the angel that he is. We head out to get some food, preferably somewhere with wifi so I can get a little more work done.
11:35 – 1 p.m.
Our joyous morning outing entails:
-Avi getting anxious about stuff he needs to do, I think possibly as a direct result of my being anxious about stuff I need to do.
-Us passing our anxieties back and forth, empathizing with each other and discussing realistic solutions like hopping on a flight back to California where we were last weekend. (It was 70 degrees.)
-Stopping for breakfast at a cafe in Williamsburg where the food is bad and the wifi sucks, which improves our moods a great deal.
It dawns on me that I’m already running late for a show — Eckhaus Latta — which starts at 2 p.m. but which is luckily close to my house. We rush home.
I get to Eckhaus Latta on time. It’s in a huge and beautiful warehouse space in Bushwick.
There are cool looks and camel coats aplenty. A baby in the front row cries in the middle of the show and has to be rushed out like a tiny, hungry prince.
The show ends. I mentally note how much I’ve enjoyed the casting so far this season; it’s felt less box-checky than usual, in regards to race and age, and I’ve seen a lot of makeup-free models and bodies similar to those I see in the wild.
I walk home nearly doubled over with period cramps. I decide they are the worst period cramps I’ve ever had (but I always say that).
I crawl back into bed like Gollum. I don’t move for an hour, I feel genuinely relaxed and like I could stay there until Monday. (I know I’m dramatic but, after a week of 12-hour work days and poor sleep, I feel tired in the marrow of my bones.)
I map how long it will take me to get to Spring Studios by train for Jonathan Simkhai: 40 minutes. Given I am in bed, I am basically already late.
I get to Jonathan Simkhai and it’s a madhouse! Intimidating, but thank god Harling is here. I find my seat next to her and we spy on Joan Smalls in the front row while we wait for the show to start. Later I see this amazing video of Phoebe Robinson feeling awkward sitting nearby and am utterly tickled, because I felt like that sitting near her just two days prior at Creatures of Comfort.
Harling and I regrettably part ways (she has a show uptown), and I have a two-and-a-half-hour break, for which I have nothing to do.
I call my sister to see if I can come hang out with her — I miss her and she lives in Nolita — but she doesn’t answer. I decide to walk to Man Repeller HQ instead, like a loser. I call my mom, she doesn’t answer.
I call my friend Adrea and apologize for missing her birthday party the night before. We talk for awhile and it’s really nice.
I get to the office. It’s dark and empty and silent. Since I live in a basement with no door and have three roommates upstairs who are home a lot, I never feel totally alone, and I never quite get the satisfaction of closing a door on the world to complete solitude. Right now, the office offers that, and after a week of overstimulation, it feels like ecstasy. I’m suddenly so excited I have two hours to kill until Pyer Moss at 8:30 p.m.
I don’t even have my laptop, so I can’t work! I take a selfie.
I get a big-ass bowl of pesto pasta from across the street. I’m really hungry after mostly not eating all day. (Remember, breakfast was bad and I gave most of it to Avi.)
I put on David Letterman’s new Netflix show and watch him talk to George Clooney for an hour, which is surprisingly entertaining. I decide that I, too, would have changed my whole life for Amal. I eat some of Edith’s ice cream cake. This is a really cool Saturday night.
Time to go! Should be a 20-minute walk or so. I realize my phone is dying so I steal Matt’s charge cord (sorry Matt, I’ll bring it back!) and head out.
As I approach Spring Studios, I run into Aemilia (Madden, not Diamond), who I like and know through various industry events. She indicates I’m walking the wrong way and I panic and say I have to make a phone call, which is an anxious lie.
I come to my senses and meet Aemilia in line and remember how nice it is to know people at fashion events. Her friend knows someone in PR who is working Pyer Moss and gets us to the front of the line, which is fun but I feel undeserving.
I’m in my assigned seat now, feeling slightly awkward but enjoying all the good outfits in the front row. I decide to introduce myself to the guy next to me.
Me: Hi! I’m Haley.
Him: Hi! I’m Josh.
Me: Nice to meet you, where do you work?
Him: *turns away and talks to his one million friends*
Me: *pretends to cough*
Show starts. Holy shit there is a live gospel choir here!
The show is moving, political and beautiful. The clothes are so good, but they’re almost secondary. Robin Givhan says it best:
“The runway show was both cleansing and inciting, a fashion ritual transformed into a rainy-night revival infused with religiosity, sorrow and ultimately optimism. It was the kind of show in which the personal and the political are interwoven — the kind of show for which Kerby Jean-Raymond has become known.” -Robin Givhan, The Washington Post
I’m outside, it’s raining, and I realize I left my umbrella under my seat. (Good thing I’m wearing a detachable hood!) I hurry to the subway — I have 45 minutes of trains to take home. I spend them reading Maureen Dowd’s New York Times piece on Uma Thurman, which is great.
I’m home, I’m home!!! I immediately put on sweats, do my skincare routine and brush my teeth. Just as I’m about to get in bed, I remember we have two stories going up tomorrow that I haven’t edited. I go to my desk and work for an hour.
OKAY now I’m ready to sleep.
I get in bed and have never been more comfortable in my whole life. I’m such a baby — this day wasn’t even that crazy, but I decide I just might sleep forever. Good night!
Photos via Haley Nahman.