“All I can rectify is that the party’s just begun.”—Nelly Furtado, “Party”

One of the biggest perks of being the Fashionista is having an all-access pass to runway shows, boutique openings, and the ultimate luxe treat: fashion-magazine parties. It’s a tough job, but somebody’s got to do it.

Recently, the Fashionista attended the red-carpet ride known to insiders as the Couture Cutting Edge Gala—and oh, what a ride it was! Some girls enjoy caviar and champagne, others might choose a spa day at Bliss or a luscious chocolate dessert—but the Fashionista would trade all of the above to party at the Couture gala once more. It was an event complete with plenty of celebrity skin—A-listers decked out in Marchesa gowns, Cartier jewels, and strappy Louboutins.

But the downtown boho chic girls were out in full force, too—many of them pairing frilly Alexander McQueen skirts with shimmery Alice Roi camis. And, not to be outdone, the uptown elite were in attendance as well—decked out in Chanel and Valentino, of course. Then there were the fashion luminaries: like Couture’s Isabel Dupre, who looked glamorous in that oh-so-French way of hers, a vision in Armani Privé. But the Fashionista’s favorites are the wild cards—the Cinderellas of the ball whom no one who’s anyone had ever seen before. One filly in particular really took the Fashionista’s breath away: a willowy beauty in Elie Saab who looked like she’d stepped out of a dream. Who was she? you might ask.Well, she wasn’t a Hollywood star or a supermodel or a socialite of a scandal-sheet regular. Actually, she was a “lowly” Couture intern who outshone all the designers and fashion dominatrixes the party was meant to honor.

Ah, quelle surprise! That’s one of the Fashionista’s favorite things about this crazy fashion business: watching caterpillars turn into butterflies.

Until next time,

Your faithful Fashionista

“In the future, everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes." --Andy Warhol

What would you do for your fifteen minutes? The Fashionista has been pondering that question a lot of late, watching as various would-be designers, models, starlets, and American Idols bare their fangs and sharpen their claws for a piece of the spotlight.

How far would you go in pursuit of fame? Would you spread your cash around to win friends (as a certain Harvard-bound Dalton grad did last year in an attempt to curry favor with the “right people”)? Would you spread nasty lies to destroy your competition (as a certain Argentine model did, looking to disgrace a fellow mannequin)? Or would you shove a friend aside to make sure that you were first (as a certain Couture beauty editor did when she literally shoved a colleague who scored a guest spot on the Today show)?

Honestly, the Fashionista just can’t understand what all the fuss is about. I’ve experienced fame, and here’s a secret: It’s overrated. It inspires predatory paparazzi and equally hungry hangers-on—who are all, in a word, tiresome. Success, on the other hand, is a worthy alternative to all kinds of celebrity. It’s the stuff that drives that passionate start-up jewelry designer on the Lower East Side and that obscure milliner up in Harlem who re-creates vintage-era hats simply because he cannot bear to see a fashion gem tossed in the garbage. Are either of them famous? Hardly. On the road to celebrity? Doubtful. But they’re already wildly successful in a way that most of us never will be.

Darlings, trust me, don’t be seduced by the lure of notoriety. After all, there’s a reason the Fashionista remains anonymous.

Your faithful Fashionista