The season Look
I just simply cannot remember if I was on top of a mountain or in Paris, I just seem to sparsely remember it was somewhere provincial. Where was it?
The princesses and I usually like to spend the last weeks of the summer far away from the Riviera, where by this time of the year everyone’s face looks already like a hundred-percent-leather dog’s anus, boasting the visible signs of every single hour they did not spend sleeping, but spent instead trying to bring men half their age on their knees to sleep with them.
On the opposite side, the princesses and I like to start loosing our tan as soon as possible, to be candid again right in time for the up-coming season. Princess A.u.R.L often talks about the necessity of being as close to a blank canvas as possible, so that “every single drink that will be spilt upon it will be noticeable and worn with pride, like wrinkles and rubies” (Princess A.u.R.L, contrarily to Princess B.F.d.R is a very free-spirited soul).
Anyhow, I really cannot remember where we ended up vacationing that time, but sure as the Heavens in the sky there was not a chance a Lady could get her claws on any Oscar De La Renta in that spot of Paradise so remote; In a pill, we all had a beginning-of-the-season Ball just two days after our very return to civilisation and had not the palest clue on what we were to wear. I know, I know, one would never dream of thinking that I could possibly end up in such circumstances; It would come natural for one to think that I have an impressive archive of couture pieces from my Saint-Laurent years or my Walter Albini years, ready to be taken out of their climate-controlled cases in the chateau in the Rhône and worn at beginning-of-the-season Balls, BUT, my dearest readers I just simply cannot be seen twice in the same ensemble, it is the one rule on which I based my whole life a well as my glitzing career. And it is fundamental for a Lady such as myself not to let anyone to remember a thing about my Looks: I live in the complete and absolute fear that one day someone might come up to me and say “Candice darling, you look stunning in this Balenciaga, is it not the same one you wore at your fortieth birthday? When was it? Forty years ago?”. I just could not possibly ever in this World never I’d die, I’d just die!
To solve this issue mostly based on a lethal mix of lack of confidence and lack of common sense, the princesses and I opted for something radical, un-heard of within our social ranks and as sly as a sniper at an open-buffet: We’d swap gowns. We-Would-Swap-Our-Gowns, did you understand the entity of such scheming in its entirety? After all we all are thin and gorgeous women and we could all easily slip into each other’s corsets! Yes! Genius!
No one at the party would ever guess our dark machinations, and in the worst-case scenario, other guests will just think that we had a couture dress from our very close friends’ collection copied for thousands and thousands of dollars. We were high on our own sharp intellect.
Ever since we took this dramatic decision, we fancy calling this revolutionary invention of ours the “Borrow-Clothes-For-Seasonal-Parties” manoeuvre:
Let’s say a ‘Look for the season’. Or, if one wants to be caustic, a ‘Look for the seasoned’.
by Lady Candice Appleby (. . .)
Originally published on Lujon 2