Once a year, like Christmas, Fashion Week comes to our nation's capital; Nicosia. Although it has not reached the heights of the Paris or Milan Fashion Weeks, the Cypriot girls aim to reach the colossal heights of the other fashion shows by wearing high-heels that resemble 30-storey buildings. Like snow, the couture citizens of Nicosia and other neighbouring countries descend on our nation's capital, like a very stylish army. Armed with hand-bags and other accessories, the only different these fashionstas are much more intimidating than any army on earth.
Usually I by-passed Fashion Week for the fact that I was just not fashionable enough, but my friend Cake was the one who attends fashion events, as she is trendy and in this case the show was organised by her good friend Funky Fashionista. I on the other hand, have had a history of undressing rather than dressing in couture.
However this year was an excpetion as my good friend Cake had a spare ticket and gave it to me.
‘But I’m hardly the most fashionable person’ I said as I generously accepted the invitation.
‘And I am?’ she said ‘I’m only going for the hell of it. I mean it’s a perfect opportunity to have a laugh.’
However it turns out the laugh was on me. Not only was I 20 minutes late, but I couldn’t find parking and parked miles away from the fashion show, and thanks to Cake, who said I could wear whatever I wanted, I turned up in very stylish clothes… for the beach. I was wearing jeans, a tight-fitting blue-checked shirt and phenomenally fun although totally inappropriate silver trainers! Yes, I should have been at a rave not a fashion show. Everyone else was dressed in black. It was like a fashion funeral rather than a fashion show. I wanted to drink, but refrained.
Luckily I was not the only one wearing anything other than black. Cake was wearing a 60’s style red dress with frills. She made it work, after all she was a woman. I on the other hand looked like a lost party-boy. Couture? What?
So there I sat. In my cool but totally inappropriate clothes. I looked like I just wandered into a Gucci add from an Abercrombie and Fitch advert filmed in Venice Beach, LA. I could literally feel people’s eyes burning into me as they wondered, what the hell is he doing here? I could feel them visually rip my clothes off, not because they thought I was hot (although I’m sure some did) but because I was not a fashion victim. I refused to be a victim.
Talk about fashion police. I thought they would have a security man come over any minute and escort me off the premises.
Looking back, I wish I was fierce in the face of fashion. So I was wearing a blue shirt. It looked great on me but when the whole room is dressed in clothes that makes them look like they are attending a mass funeral and judging me for my lack of black, it is no wonder I would feel intimidated. Still though, I couldn’t help but imagine myself sashaying in inappropriately dressed in my silver shoes and chain, and being completely dismissive of everyone. That would have got them to like me. Or if I went to the fashion show with a devil-may-care attitude, behaving anti-establishment and throwing paint over a model in protest for fur (despite the models being almost naked).
We were sitting on the front row, right opposite the runway. On the other side of the platform, a Russian woman, with a hint of Anna Wintour stared at me. At first I stared back and managed a smile. She looked away. But over the course of the evening she kept looking at me. Was it me of my attire she was looking at? Did she think I actually had come in all anti-establishment-like or was he admiring the fact that I had the balls that I could be dressed to the minus nines in a glamourised convention of fabric-worship? And then it struck me, perhaps she was scouting for male models and had her sights set on me. In would finally be discovered, make lots of money, be paid to look good and live the life I was meant to lead, a hedonistic, lavish life which replaces one of questions, soul-searching, bed-hopping and hard work.
Usually I by-passed Fashion Week for the fact that I was just not fashionable enough, but my friend Cake was the one who attends fashion events, as she is trendy and in this case the show was organised by her good friend Funky Fashionista. I on the other hand, have had a history of undressing rather than dressing in couture.
However this year was an excpetion as my good friend Cake had a spare ticket and gave it to me.
‘But I’m hardly the most fashionable person’ I said as I generously accepted the invitation.
‘And I am?’ she said ‘I’m only going for the hell of it. I mean it’s a perfect opportunity to have a laugh.’
However it turns out the laugh was on me. Not only was I 20 minutes late, but I couldn’t find parking and parked miles away from the fashion show, and thanks to Cake, who said I could wear whatever I wanted, I turned up in very stylish clothes… for the beach. I was wearing jeans, a tight-fitting blue-checked shirt and phenomenally fun although totally inappropriate silver trainers! Yes, I should have been at a rave not a fashion show. Everyone else was dressed in black. It was like a fashion funeral rather than a fashion show. I wanted to drink, but refrained.
Luckily I was not the only one wearing anything other than black. Cake was wearing a 60’s style red dress with frills. She made it work, after all she was a woman. I on the other hand looked like a lost party-boy. Couture? What?
So there I sat. In my cool but totally inappropriate clothes. I looked like I just wandered into a Gucci add from an Abercrombie and Fitch advert filmed in Venice Beach, LA. I could literally feel people’s eyes burning into me as they wondered, what the hell is he doing here? I could feel them visually rip my clothes off, not because they thought I was hot (although I’m sure some did) but because I was not a fashion victim. I refused to be a victim.
Talk about fashion police. I thought they would have a security man come over any minute and escort me off the premises.
Looking back, I wish I was fierce in the face of fashion. So I was wearing a blue shirt. It looked great on me but when the whole room is dressed in clothes that makes them look like they are attending a mass funeral and judging me for my lack of black, it is no wonder I would feel intimidated. Still though, I couldn’t help but imagine myself sashaying in inappropriately dressed in my silver shoes and chain, and being completely dismissive of everyone. That would have got them to like me. Or if I went to the fashion show with a devil-may-care attitude, behaving anti-establishment and throwing paint over a model in protest for fur (despite the models being almost naked).
We were sitting on the front row, right opposite the runway. On the other side of the platform, a Russian woman, with a hint of Anna Wintour stared at me. At first I stared back and managed a smile. She looked away. But over the course of the evening she kept looking at me. Was it me of my attire she was looking at? Did she think I actually had come in all anti-establishment-like or was he admiring the fact that I had the balls that I could be dressed to the minus nines in a glamourised convention of fabric-worship? And then it struck me, perhaps she was scouting for male models and had her sights set on me. In would finally be discovered, make lots of money, be paid to look good and live the life I was meant to lead, a hedonistic, lavish life which replaces one of questions, soul-searching, bed-hopping and hard work.
So, I sat there and posed. I would tilt my head and arch my back slightly. I would look at the models intently, pretending to scrutinise their clothes acting out as if I were interested in the colours, the lines of the clothing the fabric and whatever else it is fashionistas notice in a garment. Then, forgetting that I was meant to be posing, I would take pictures with my digital cameras (the flash definitely made others notice me too, but for other reasons).
I could feel her glancing every so often in my direction and I became convinced that she would recruit me, the way Kate Moss was recruited while waiting outside a train station. I sat there wondering what I would say to her when she would say ‘you should be a model. Call me’ and then hand me her card. The whole time there, at the back of my mine I wondered ‘really? Me?’ and why not, I mean I do have chiselled features, and its not like models have to be beautiful right? Just different looking. Right?
But the models walked on and off, and on and off again and the show had ended. And no one approached me, other than the manager of the event who thought I was a waiter who was late and wanted me to get changed. Actually, someone did approach me; the Womaniser (why am I not surprised he is at a fashion show filled with half naked women?). He turned up with a model or two, trailing him like two dinghies training a streamliner.
‘Hello’ was all he said, and expected me to fill in the rest.
‘Hey…’ I began, forgetting his name (Womaniser would suffice) and to gain access to it introduced him to Cake.
‘This is my friend Cake’ I said, who had her back to us. As she turned she was scoffing down a pinkish type of hors d’ouevres and said with a mouthful ‘God damn it, I’m so hungry, I could eat a frigging horse.’ The Man-Eater smiled weakly and swanned off, with his two fag hags trotting off after him and Cake went back to scoffing caviar-spread nibbles.
The after party was at a bar called Planet Vodka. Almost everyone went for the models. I went with Cake for the free booze.
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