Fashion week is an outstanding opportunity that for most, unfortunately only appears twice a year:

An opportunity for every designer to be forgivably sadistic while they order around borderline-psychotic interns who have been slaving 20 hours a day.  

For every hard working stylist who has been dressing up in freebees and shoots crummy left overs while simultaneously living off old canapés and endless shimmering glasses of champagne.  

For every photographer who has been spending the past 6 months shooting taste-less weddings and/or birthdays of annoying infants to make up for that miserable rent.

For every underfed model who has been busting her bony tail trying to learn basic English to make up for dropping out of school at age 9.  

For every shopaholic who has been bribing, tipping, begging and returning grueling favors to shop managers over lunches, dinners and happy hours for one lonely ticket!

For every respectable drag queen, transsexual and homosexual who feels the need to associate their sexuality with something ruthlessly glam.  

For every established and debutant celebrity who has no recourse but to act as if they belong in the first row, show off a trained grin and immediately radiate sophistication, attitude, knowledge, elegance, refinement, style, charisma, glamour and above all else an irrefutable passion for fashion.

Regardless, and thankfully to our amusement, everyone gets a first-class view on how ridiculous some demi-gods occasionally allow themselves to look.

Karolina (my partner in crime) and Your's Truly have been willingly absorbed into this parallel dimension with no tangible links to our former realities. A world where everyone is a minute size 2, Vogue is the holiest of bibles and designers are the fiercest of gods. A world where all the daily required vitamins can be found rationed in canapés, where champagne is the closest and healthiest alternative to water. 

Ladies and gentlewomen, this is a world where you are what you wear…

Our adventure was stuffed with perils and exhaustion. We have endured the mishap of being kidnapped by cynical stylists who could not stop themselves from bitching behind the aching backs of their respective designers. We escaped through racks of cloths, accidentally cutting ourselves with misshapen hangers, camping in chaotic back stages before we crossed an ocean of assistants transporting gallons of champagne. Counter-resistant creative mafias captured us and held us hostage while they smuggled our vulnerable behinds into shows. Playing stunts that were fit for a Russian contortionist, we twisted our way through the blinding lasers of heavy security men ready to check our tickets, fighting armies of sick crazed fashionistas, running miles and miles of red carpets under the burning flashes of those obnoxious cameras. Jumping from catwalk to catwalk clawing under typhoons of flying shoes, dresses, bags, leggings, hats, gloves, belts, shades and scarves, all of it created by some of the best designers out there.

However, other unfortunate fashion junkies or should I say "miserable wanna be’s" felt the need to run blindly into a fashion no-man's land, a place where no self-conscious, fashion street-smart, self-respected, sound-minded individual has ever been or would ever be invited to show their slightly drunk and heavily made-up face.

Beware of our top 4 most wanted fashion week flops (see below images). 

Fashionably yours,

Hass Idriss

www.hassidriss.com 
hass@hassidriss.com