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A Fine Mess
went to my first fashion show back in the '80s with strict instructions from my seasoned boss: Arrive a few minutes after the official start time, find your seat quickly, and don't
let them push you around (at fashion shows, pushing is the order of the day). Whenever anyone approached me and suggested that I might be in the wrong seat -- something
I believed in my heart to be true -- I'd look at them and smile and not move an inch.
Those runway shows presented a glimpse of perfection that didn't exist in real life. The models invariably had tightly controlled chignons, lined and painted lips, heavily darkened eyes,
and enough face powder to choke Marie Antoinette. Backstage, though, was a chaos of blow-dryers, shouting, cigarette smoke, hair spray, warring photographers, boom boxes, and models reading Siddhartha -- a raw, messy incubator of beauty ideas. The way those models could emerge from
that frenzy looking serene and composed was magic to me.