Fashion month is a con. Or rather, the idea of fashion month is a con. All lacquered glamour and air-kisses, but in reality, by week four, you’re essentially a Victorian orphan in Miu Miu. Your circadian rhythm has packed up and left. You’ve eaten approximately three almonds and half a room-service Caesar salad in six days. Your screen-time report arrives each Sunday with the energy of a medical diagnosis. There are trains, planes, taxis, delaye…
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