The Flack Files, Vol. 1: Are You Coming to My Press Preview?
Introducing the first installment of a weekly column from a seasoned New York City fashion publicist who is experiencing a severe case of fash-fatigue. Her identity? A closely-guarded secret.
As the season turns to Fall, our thoughts naturally turn to none other than SS16. At least I’m no longer writing about the perils of my humidity-ridden hair!
I’m curious—have you received the invite to my press preview? I’ve only sent it 16 times so you may have missed it. We all thought the pain of Fashion Month was over, but alas, now we head into the JV tryouts of showroom previews.
The dance of the preview feels a lot like a first date. I put on a new outfit and am a-buzz with possibility. But then you come and silently stare while I tap dance about the cutting-edge Sedona motif being presented. You take the requisite photos while grunting your way through my spiel. And I leave feeling as demoralized as I did in that Tinder date with Meth Teeth Man. (No wonder he didn’t smile in his profile pic.)
I realize your schedule is more complicated than the landing pattern at CDG, but I do think someone of your stature should be able to pass a simple reading comprehension exam. Where’s the preview, you inevitably wonder? Oh, they’re only listed in the attachment, in the embedded graphic, and also written in bold in the email, but I’ll be happy to send you a calendar appointment, just to be safe. Yes, the event is on Tuesday from 9 to 7 p.m. And no, you can’t come on Friday at 8 a.m.
At least I get to do this in a showroom and I don’t have to dress out a hotel suite, like I did every single week until the legendary crash of 2008. It harkens back to when I was an assistant and saw any hotel event opportunity as the chance to escape my rat-infested studio, sleep there and take a bath without fear of contracting a disease. Too bad the one time I exercised that liberty, the client sales rep showed up unannounced just before midnight to do some final merchandising touches. Thank God the chain lock was on, because I was two feet deep in bubbles when he came knocking. Cut to me jumping out of the tub, mopping myself down and throwing my outfit back on in less than 15 seconds. “What am I doing here?” I said. “Just tweaking the display.” See, I care. No, that’s not my overnight bag! Those are just gym clothes. As for why my hair is dripping wet, well…
Anyway, I can’t wait to see you tomorrow! Or the next day! Or whenever you choose to deign us with your presence. I’m not picky—I just need a body count for my client recap. Which, let’s be honest, is 64% fabrication anyways.
Your favorite flack