Once upon a time, there was a park. For one week each year, it became the center of the fashion universe, transformed by the white-peaked tents that arose as if by magic. People came from every corner of the world to see the shows inside—some to write about them, some to photograph them, and some were there simply to be seen.
But there was yet another sort of person who made their way to the tents, smacking her overglossed lips and determined to devour the shows: The Crasher.
Easy to spot and impossible to avoid, the Crasher donned logos from head to toe. Devoid of any actual credentials and seeking only to boast that she had been there, the slippery Crasher counted on the temporary set-up to be easy to overtake. Standing at one of the entrances, she’d cry:
“Security, Security, Let me come in!”Raising an eyebrow at her, they’d reply, “Not by the models who are thinny-thin-thin.”
The Crasher would gasp and protest:“But I know so-and-so! I absolutely must go! Do you have any idea who I am?”
And, because he didn’t really know who any of these people were, concerned that perhaps she was someone of importance, he would let her in. Many years later, the rulers of the land declared that the tents must be moved to a more permanent location and ensconced within walls of brick and mortar. Invitations were delivered near and far with special seals to admit entry to the shows. Alas, but the Crasher was sent none. Still, she stood at the entrance on the first day and cried:
“Security, Security, Let me come in!”And they replied, “Not by the models who are thinny-thin-thin.”
The Crasher stomped her stilettoed foot. “But I know so-and-so! I absolutely must go! Do you have any idea who I am?”“Well, I just googled you. The results: Wait, who? So I’m afraid you cannot come in.”
And the Crasher had no choice but to slither away and wait for the after-parties to begin.The End.
Illustration by Keiko Morimoto.
