My Life in Paris: A Passion for Fashion

With her gold faux-fur sleeves and sleek bobbed fringe, Theadora hits Paris Fashion Week…

Amid the pop, pop, pop of the paparazzi’s cameras, I exit the Junko Shimada fashion show at the Palais de Tokyo, a vibrant venue dating back to the 1937 Exposition Internationale. “Au revoir mes chéries!” I shout to the limestone nymphs chill-axing at the Palais’s poolside. Wearing nothing but sheer confidence and chic coifs, the statues are still beautiful.

Inspired by their tranquillity, after striking a few poses for the photographers, I coolly skedaddle.

Never underestimate the power of a flattering hairdo. Perhaps this explains the strength the nymphs exude, I think to myself, as I zip along the riverside rue in ruby booties and a chequered roll neck. I’m also rocking a denim jacket with gold faux-fur sleeves because, as my grandmother used to say: “If you look like a million bucks, you’ll feel like a million bucks!”. And today I am feeling like a million-euro newbie.

OVER THE MOON

After catching a glimpse of my reflection in a Vespa’s rearview mirror, I re-reapply my ‘Power Pink’ matte lipstick, because less is never more, especially on the final day of my very first Paris Fashion Week. I am nervous but also over la lune snap-happy because next up is the Moon Young Hee show over in Saint- Germain-des-Prés.

Nothing is going to slow me down or destroy my sleek bobbed fringe, nipped for this very occasion. No wind! No rain! Thinking ahead of the self-care curve in the wee hours of the morning like a seasoned show pro, I had scored a massive can of Carrefour’s house-brand hairspray. Let me tell you, my helmet-like ‘do’ is still passing muster. I continue moving along the river.

I keep moving until it dawns on me that I might have miscalculated the distance between the Palais de Tokyo and Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Back at the post-Junko Shimada show, as I basked in the glow, the bridges had seemed larger, and yes, closer. An easy walk, if I had more time to spare, but now I don’t, according to the clock on the Musée d’Orsay. I refuse to panic, not yet.

What would Anna Wintour do at such a clutch moment? Perhaps she’d text an assistant? But heck, I have only a cat, and dear Kitty can’t type. She wouldn’t cry, though. That much I know. No, Kitty would run, never one to miss a fancy feast.

So that’s what I do. With 20 minutes to the start of the Moon show, I launch into a mad dash. From nought to 60, I run. Racing like everybody’s watching. And indeed they are. Vendors, tourists and local commuters alike start shouting: “Allez! Allez! Theadora! Go! Go!” as I whiz by. Pumping up my pace, the loud cheers continue as I wildly sprint from pont to pont. “Bon courage, Brack!” they cry. “You’ve got this, sœur!” My soaring red soles are barely touching the ground.

Now, with more pep in my step, I not only reach Saint-Germain-des-Prés in record time but, for the first time ever, deftly navigate its maze of streets like a homing pigeon. As twilight descends, I sashay into the Moon Young Hee show as it’s about to begin, in an ancient laboratory on rue de l’École de Médecine. After presenting the black-embossed invite and my credentials at the door, I’m escorted to one of the coveted places on the front row for the ten-minute show. I have arrived.

A STITCH IN TIME

And this time, feeling sassy, I leave on my mirrored specs during the entire spectacle. Sassy, but also happy. As the strutting models kick up dust in the old lab, a rare sunset sends golden beams through its floor-to-ceiling glass panels.

Still, not all that glitters is gold. Sometimes it’s just some words on your back. Yes, just before the week began, I’d had my name embroidered on the back of this jacket. My cheering sidewalk “fans” were only reading the blazing orange words.

As designer Elsa Schiaparelli used to say: “If the wind catches your hat and tantalisingly blows it farther and farther away, you must run quicker than the wind if you want to retrieve it!”

From France Today magazine