Remember the Salahis? They were the couple that went to the Obama’s Whitehouse dinner that weren’t on the invitation list? Yeah. I loved them.
Every year when I am in Paris during Fashion Week I try to figure out who I know in the industry that can get me in to a show. Every year my so-called friends deny me this request. This year was not different so I took matters into my own think-like-a-Salahi hands. I mustered the courage to request an invitation by telling the producers of the show that I’m a writer; that I blog about Paris lifestyle; that I’ve had 30,000+ views on my blog. The next day I got an email saying that I and my +1 were invited to all shows.
Gads. Why does one wear to a fashion show in the world’s fashion capitol? I Googled this to no avail. I had brought nothing to Paris but my normal jeans, leggings and one casual dress that gets me through every trip every year for a whole month.
After two days of shopping for no one knows what, I woke up on the day of the show and put on my sheer shirt with a bra instead of a cami (Ooh la la! So fashion-forward!) I tucked my leggings up so they seemed à la Parisian, threw my hair in a high ponytail and did my best to feel at home at the Paris Ritz. Hee hee. Paris Ritz. Diana stayed there.
My first thought on seeing the venue was, “You got this”. But as other attendees started to filter in, I realized there was a theme to what one wears to Fashion Week and, y’all, I was not trending.
Nonetheless, I spent all day watching show after show. As the opening music began, I slid my happy butt, which had been commanded by show producers to stand, over to an empty chair and claimed a goodie bag. By the end of the day I had 3 swag bags and a new friend.
I was granted an interview with Red Berry Woman, one of the designers who had been featured that day. She was Native American and I thought, with my background as an Okie, I might find someone in my network who would publish an article for me.
After the interview I was asked to take a picture in front of the screen with the designer. You know THE screen? “Miss O, look here! Now here!” I turned and hip-thrusted with angled head and puckered lips, in my see through shirt and tucked leggings. Hubby (you know, Miss O’s +1) just looked at me and mouthed, “What in bloody hell is happening?”
I did manage to get my article published. Me. A fashion writer. And y’all. They’ve invited me back next year. Ha! #notsorry #salahimuch