Fashion Week -- Isn't It Nice?

It's been almost 10 years since I last covered the New York fashion shows. I've been covering fashion, but from Europe. To be honest, I haven't really missed New York and it is weird to be back. Everyone looks so ... well-pressed. They all seem so neat, like they've got really good jobs. They reek of self-confidence. They seem arrogant and self-important.

Of course there is a difference between seeming arrogant and self-important and being arrogant and self-important. The funny old thing about fashion is that once you get to know these people you realize that they're just people. And, for the most part, they're nice people. Sure they're skinny, but skinny people can be nice too.

There's a record number of bloggers in the tent this year (real bloggers, not establishment bloggers like me) and I'm enjoying reading how, whenever they talk to someone, they find "they're really nice!" Well, yes, they are!

I saw Paul Wilmont, the publicist, at Bill Blass today. I haven't seen him in a decade but he remembered me. He said I was "always so smart." (Nice!)

I saw Zac Posen today and he said he loves Fashion Inc (Nice!) and then he introduced me to his mom (Really Nice!). We are going to have coffee later in the week (Super Duper Nice!)

I had dinner with Julie Fredrickson and told her the story about how Ed Filipowski, from the PR firm KCD, caught me stealing an etched Gucci champagne flute at a dinner years ago and, when I explained to him that I have a collection of stolen etched glassware, said "I am turning my back," so I could drop it in my bag. (Nice!)

Apparently other bloggers are wondering why people aren't nicer to them. Nice isn't something that just happens in fashion. You have to earn it. You have to reach out for it.

My first season at the shows I was terrified. Terrified but thrilled. I had stumbled upon a new, captivating subculture. One I had absolutely no idea how to navigate, but I couldn't resist trying. I was working with a woman called Pia. Pia was a sort of fashion liaison to the magazine I worked on. She'd been a really famous model in the 70s, but, of course, I had never heard of her. My parents were academics. Models were something you built to test a theory. Pia was registered for the shows and when my editor said he wanted me to cover them she said I should take her business card, tell the powers that be that I was her, and collect and use her credentials. Without a second thought I marched into the Seventh on Sixth press office and announced that I was one of the world's most famous models. That I, a 25 year-old, was in fact a woman who had been modeling since before I was born. The woman behind the desk took my (her) card, looked at me and said, "I have always wanted to meet you." Stunned, I said nothing. She put the goodie bag on the table between us. I really wanted the goodie bag. It had a rather cool Timex watch in it. "You're going to be flattered when I tell you this, but I thought you'd be much older," she said. I smiled. I put my hand on the goodie bag. She didn't take hers off. "Was she joking?" I wondered. "Pia," she said. "...It is such an interesting name." Sigh. "I'll tell my folks?" I said. She laughed. "Your folks!" She released her grip on the bag. I left. To this day I still have no idea if she knew I was a fraud.

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