Friday, May 26, 2006

Stand up, stand out

Ooh, how exciting! M called and requested that I be his main hair model for this weekend's show because my features look "stunning" on stage. Haha, cha ... right. Picture Joe Camel in a Liz Taylor wig and you're only half-way past Joe DiMaggio.

I don't know if this show is considered the big leagues des cheveux, but it's supposedly really uppity-oop. Located at a top tier hotel, attendees getting "piss drunk" afterwards, these factors alone seem to ooze, "Ka-ching, ka-ching. Mr. Belvedere is our bitch."

Anyway, I'm sort of hoping wardrobe is included because M told me a make-up artist will be kabuki-ing mon visage before the first event (I'm doing two) and I can always go for more statements of self-delusion. Nevertheless, the whole six yards is still something worth savoring. Mmm, the smell of superficiality. Me like.

I went to the FIDO store to get my phone fixed. [*Sidenote: The Frenchie who served me also threw in a new antenna. The entire rescue came up to be 0 dollars. Zip, zilch, nada. No surprise: a woman's currency is her cle ... charisma.] There was this dude seated in the waiting area, looked barely out of his teens, who tried to make eye contact as I took notes reading the International Herald Tribune (because I'm pretentious like that). Dressed head-to-toe in designer threads -- which included, but not limited to, Dior Homme peg legs and a classic LV messenger bag -- I found him still sitting where I last saw him when I returned to pick-up my walkie no-talkie son-of-a-bitch handset

So I chatted him up and found out his name's Tom. We ended up talking serious, serious shop. As in, fashion (ooh, bad pun). He's a first-year student in design school, sociable, and a mainstream brand whore (although maybe not as fanatical about it as I am; I was truly surprised he had no knowledge of Rochas nor the prodigy behind the helm, Olivier Theysken).

He confessed that the instant we crossed paths, the first thought that came to mind was, "Damn! Girl has style!" [Emphasis his.] I thanked him for the compliment, noting that unlike him, I cannot afford anything by Hedi Slimane, but just like him, eBay is my crack, cocaine, and horse tranquilizer all rolled up in a Venetian-blown pipe. I knew we clicked the moment he unconsciously bent over and felt the leather on my boots and nodded approvingly. "Hand-made. From Italy," I confirmed. "New in box, never worn. Internet bargain."

Okay, full stop. The moral of this here story is that I met my first Montreal socialite ("I just came back from partying in Paris for a week. I'm going back again in July") and hopefully -- fingers crossed -- his friendship will get my foot in the chi-chi proverbial door.

I'm almost 20 and have yet to accomplish anything significant. I need to start making contacts and parlay them into lucrative opportunities already! Can't you just see me 10 years from now, painting pebbles on the corner of a Mexican restaurant, and selling them as breakfast cereal sculptures?

God ... that would really suck. Yet, positively confirmed.


Sartorial coincidence, three degrees of separation: My hairdresser, M, is close friends with The Rakes, who appeared in the Dior Homme show, currently Tom's favourite band and brand. Now if only I can snag me an invite ...

A girl can dream. Or hustle. C'est la meme chose.

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