I still have no real idea how I ended up backstage at Sydney Fashion Week, but I was mesmerized by every minute of it.
It had nothing to do with the clothes.
Let me explain why the Fashion Folk completely stole the show when it came to my entertainment at this year’s premier National Celebration of the Cloth.
I have broken them down under a few categories.
The Regular Fashionista
These can be fashion editors and buyers. Typically they gather in threes, wearing small leather shorts and furry vests. Their long legs are encased in black patterned tights and their feet display their latest purchase, which can be worth up to the ticket price of a small Japanese car. Hair is worn long and tumbling. Watches are large and metal. Attitudes are air-kissy and you will be getting the once over from one of them at any given time. Even when you are in the bathroom and you run out of toilet paper and you have to pop your head out to see if anyone is there to hand you some more. Even then.
A messier, more harassed looking version of the Regular Fashionistas, these gals dash around the crowds pulling celebrities in front of a camera while pushing designers’ items into their hands and yelling “Take the photo, Delphius!!!”
They always look like they are on the verge of tears.
The Make-Up Artists
Funky princesses and cool dudes work hard to bring you the latest looks from the European Runways, which include glitzy stick on metallic eyebrows. Very practical for doing the grocery shopping, or indeed if you end up facing the judge in court due to a negligent driving incident caused by one of your fancy new eyebrows falling off and spearing you in your macular.
I got chatting to one makeup artist. I asked him why everyone seemed so stony-faced. He shared with me his theory that the thinner you are, the sterner you must appear. I pointed out to him the fact that we were both very, very smiley, which made him smile even more.
Very, very stern.
And also very young. You could spot them a mile away, getting dropped off by their mum or dad before being whisked backstage by someone, wearing an earpiece and carrying a clipboard, to be transformed into a sullen faced cat-walking goddess. These models are the result of a perfect storm of a genetic cocktail mixed up by their parents.
That, or they have not eaten since year 8. The golden rule of walking during Fashion Week is for GOD’S SAKE DO NOT MAKE A FACIAL EXPRESSION, lest it detracts from the crocheted merkin you are sporting with matching boob tube.
The Catering Crew
Unwanted and unneeded.
The Obvious Fashion Week Virgin
Look for the lumpy lady wearing ballet flats and bad hair. She will be the one who jokingly asks a well-known male designer walking past with an iron if he would not mind running it over her cardigan. In return for her quip, she will be on the receiving end of one of the most effective death stares ever to be produced.
And this brings me to my final point.
Why is fashion so serious? Why are you heralded a genius if you stick a goat’s head on all of your models before sending them down the long runway?
Since when does being creative equal to being a complete tosspot?
And why, oh why, doesn’t anyone smile?