I was told to grab the steamer. I grabbed the wrong one, a tiny travel steamer meant for a handbag, not a bridal lehenga. It was, somehow, the best first day of my career.
Backstage at Fashion Week is not what Instagram sells you. It's fluorescent light, bobby pins on the floor, a tailor muttering in three languages, and somebody's assistant crying quietly into a La Colombe cup. It is also the most alive I have ever felt.
I spent nine hours on my feet. I hemmed a sleeve with a safety pin because we ran out of thread. I handed a supermodel a banana and she said thank you, and I think I blacked out for a second. I watched a dress I helped finish walk out under those lights and I felt something I don't have the vocabulary for yet.
The show ended. Everyone hugged everyone. Nobody looked at the clothes we'd been sewing until 4 am; they looked at each other. That's what nobody tells you about fashion: at the end of a show, you fall in love with your team, not the collection.
I took the 6 home at 1 am with a dress bag over my shoulder and mascara I had no memory of applying. An older woman asked if I was a designer. I said, not yet. She said, You will be. She got off at 28th. I am still thinking about her.
Love,