Dear People Who Own the Village Voice,
There is a reason, I have just discovered, that I am not front row center at every single show during fashion week! It’s my clothes. Those fancy PR people aren’t fools, they can recognize a five-year-old Comme des Garcons coat as easily as some folks can shoot a moose from an airplane.
In my industry, it isn’t who you know, or how smart you are — it’s how you dress. (Anyone who watched the insanely inane premier of Stylista last night knows just how true this is.) Those Repetto ballet flats I wear all the time? I’m stuck in them because 1) the Voice refuses to buy me a wardrobe of Louboutins, like the other fashion girls have and 2) they won’t pony up for a car and driver, so I can hobble in stilettos from a limo to my front row seat.
OK, so maybe I’m not scheduled to speak before a convention of thousands of wierdos in elephant hats — does that mean I have to languish in duds worthy of a vintage-loving community organizer? Maybe I haven’t crisscrossed the country railing about Bill Ayers and socialism, but that does that mean I don’t deserve a $150,000 clothing allowance?
When it comes to Saks and Neimans, I’m happy to reach across the aisle.