“It’s a Humiliation Ritual”: Taylore’s PFW Diary, Day Seven

12:15 AM

We’re pulling up to Les Folies for Cicciolina, the very famous and very fun end of Fashion Week party that’s happening a day too early this season (Coperni is at noon tomorrow), but for some reason my boss offered to buy my ticket so I guess I have permission to sleep in. “I’ll handle the door,” I tell my friend as the Uber slows, but it’s not the same circus as last time, it’s worse, and there are already 100 desperate fashion people battling to get in.

12:22 AM

We run into my new friend Camille and Ben’s friend Wali and squeeze through the crowd to the front of the line. Camille smooth talks her way in and promises to send someone out for us (they never come). “It’s a humiliation ritual,” a model says after a few people belt out Adele upon the door person’s request. This is the quickest and possibly only way to skip the line if you’re not hot and important, which I guess we aren’t because we’ve been standing here for ten minutes already. I’m dressed like a strict librarian. I’m not singing for anyone. My strategy is to be polite and patient until the bouncer puts his giant hand on my breasts and shoves me backwards into the crowd. “I just got assaulted by your buddy,” I tell a door person after another duo start crooning for their right to redeem $50 pre-purchased tickets. “Does that count for something?”

12:38 AM

Inside, a cigarette sauna. Models, designers, editors, party people, and wannabes. No fucked up major Netflix actors like there were at last night’s function. We dance, drink tequila, meet more models. I use two hands to cover my breasts while a royal ties my blouse into a tube top. Some people are going to the Arca party but I stay. Another location is a bad idea but so is going home. What am I chasing? Release? Drama? [REDACTED]? I make a new friend and get some media gossip. I drink a beer out of a fancy bottle. I chug water and I try to dance. My feet hurt and there’s nowhere to sit and nothing left for me here. 

12:17 PM

Time for Coperni. I didn’t check the weather before leaving the house and I’m severely underdressed. So is Demi Lovato, but she has a personal driver and looks like she got a much better night’s sleep than I did. I talk to a woman who works for a major tech company about her battle for a Chanel ticket while I suck down one of the smoothies they’re serving guests. I’m not hungover, just deliciously braindead. My eyes glaze, the show begins, and I’m transported into the French countryside. No gimmicks. Just clothes. That can’t be right? I make a mental note to review the runway images later.  

12:55 PM

I book it down a cobblestone street toward a thrift store I spotted on Google Maps. Less than an hour until Miu Miu. I buy a waxed barn jacket for 20 Euros and walk out warm and cozy and… reeking of mildew? So much for being savvy. I spy a cropped faux fur coat in the window of [REDACTED] and leave my thrifted purchase on a bus stop bench. 240 Euros for a bundle of plastic. This bitch better be returnable. I swipe my credit card and throw the stole over my shoulders, tag on. I’ve never done this before but I’ve watched enough Real Housewives to know it’s bad.

2:21 PM

This coat feels extra outrageous given the fact that every influencer in line for the Miu Miu show is carrying her own faux fur shrug from the Fall-Winter 2025 collection. I may be a poser but at least I’m warm and with ticket, unlike the other peacockers parading around the venue. An editor compliments my jacket (a slight??) and I turn my camera on King Kylie. Another shove (from a body guard), this time gentler. Another “please go take your seat.” Suddenly I’m awkward, frantic. I move quickly. I slam my leg into a transparent blockade between the primary colored tables that are lined up in lieu of chairs. The “seating” leaves mine and everyone else’s legs dangling. Light refracts through lime green siding. I feel like a child. 

2:33 PM

The opening look is workwear. An apron, a Dickies-esque pant. A solid boot. Slowly the bibs get more intricate. Lace, bedazzling, layers upon layers. Simple baby doll dresses. Almost all the shoes are flat. The theme is labor, motherhood. “The apron is a symbol of woman’s work,” Mrs. Prada says to a crowd of journos post-show. This all fits neatly with my new fashion week thesis: it’s exhausting to be a woman.

3:42 PM

I consider dropping 500 Euros on a broken Claude Montana coat and a plastic belt I’m told is Mugler at a very ’80s vintage store Rachel Tashjian recommended to me. I want to tell the shopkeep that I don’t normally dress like this but then I remember I gave up being insecure. I want to buy everything but then I remember I have to pay for my own hotel room. I get breakfast at lunch time. I send emails. I take a meeting. I edit a story. I miss the Thom Browne show.

9:15 PM

I pull up to a crowd of people drinking champagne on the street in front of  Cibus. I’m here for dinner with Ioannes, a German brand I found out about when they emailed me with an invite for “a special evening” including a guest list of some girls I really fuck with and a look book including a pink twinset I could pull.

11:05 PM

I’ve written about this before, about how on the final night of Fashion Week even the most successful people (including very famous and wealthy celebrities) get sad about the shows they weren’t invited to, or the editors who snubbed them, or the shows they got booked for and dropped from. But tonight is giving gratitude. We’re all gossiping, yes, but we’re also eating, sharing our highlights, not lows. “It’s no mistake that we’re here,” a boy said to me earlier in the week when we dared to complain about Paris. A million people would kill to have the sore feet and the fashion flu you’re flying home with tomorrow. So count your blessings and remember: you’re doing great, sweetie.