Fashion week is so visual, beauty-filled and sensual.
Which is why I begin the day in sweat pants. It can be a mission washing yesterday's spray, glitter and foreign objects from my hair (I once spent two hours picking out dry glue). 'I don't care' clothes are the psychological tool to get this done.
When the mane is sorted I upgrade my outfit. Dressing is an exercise in compromise, as anything I wear will be surrendered to concrete floors and the squished spaces behind clothing racks. Denim survives, so it's my default.
Once onsite I head backstage into a constant cloud of hairspray. Talented people do wonderful things to make me someone else. I put on an imagined girl's clothes and walk her down the runway. It's a fast, heady fling to be this other person and very soon I'm back in my floor-flung jeans, heading home to my sweat pants.
