I have to confess something a little embarassing to you. This spring, I turned into a true fashion victim for a minute. Ooookay, maybe it was more than just two seconds… Maybe two months.
It’s actually weird cause I am pretty relaxed with my style right now. I’m a little tired of the fashion* hysteria and I’ve been going with simple and classic outfits. I’m totally Sophia Coppola** these days.

Give me a pair of jeans and ballet flats*** and I am happy.

BUT.

For a few months now, I’ve been trying to ignore a little voice inside me saying, “Céline Birks. Céline Birks****!!!

Yeah. These in the illustration.

I swear, I’ve been trying to get it out of my head. It’s like these shoes have possessed me or something, with their “let’s have fun with fashion” look and that “yeaaaaahhhhh I’m so bourgeois and sooooooo chill” that I wear Birks with fur inside.

So one day, when Scott asked me what I wanted for my birthday, my mouth opened all on its own and fashionista hiccups came tumbling out… “Céline Birks!

Pffff.

Scott said no. Anything but that. You want to annihilate our love life. No. Way. He hates shoes with fur inside. He thinks it’s gross when fur and toes collide.

And normal Garance, the one you all know, she totally agrees. Fur between the toes is interesting enough during a show, awesome in Vogue, sublaaaaaaïme in illustrations, but in real life, it’s a little weird.
But Garashionista, my fashion-victim doppelganger, like all fashion-victims, loooooooves them and thinks that just wearing these shoes would make for a happy woman who you can only ever catch from her left profile (her good side).

And since Garashionista***** has her feminine wiles in tact, she was able to convince Scott that getting her those shoes for her birthday would be the ultimate sign of true-love (she has a split personality AND puts together amazing arguments.)

And she won.

He spent weeks looking for them, such a love he is.

Of course though, he couldn’t find them. All the true fashion victims***** ordered them the second they went up on Style.com, which is to say, a few seconds after they hit the runway.

But you know, after he was able to show his undying love for me, I was kind of able to forget all about being soooooo bourgeois yet sooooo chill with my fit all nice and warm and cozy in the fur.

And one day, we were just enjoying a nice stroll through the streets of Soho.
We made a stop (as one must) at Kirna Zabete****** when suddenly, like a far off mirage, I saw the Céline Birks. In my size. I was barely able to breathe when I asked to try them on.

Haaaaaaaaa…

Big fashion moment.

I turned to see myself in the mirror and I saw….

A haggard looking Garance with Birks on and really hairy feet (And Scott just cracking up in the background).

I moved my toes around a little to feel the effect of the fur. It’s a little weird. I took them off, stared at them, turn them around in my hands like I would with a diamond, considered buying them just to frame them (these shoes have already made fashion history)(wouldn’t these look amazing if they were framed and just put up nonchalantly in the office of our new Studio*******, like works of art?)(Shutup Garashionista!) and then looked back at Scott, who was grandiosely gesticulating, saying noooooooooooo!
So, nope. I didn’t get ‘em.

I let, slightly bruised ego in tote but a little wiser after the experience. I was reassured, the new Garance, cool and put together, Garance Coppola, sometimes you catch her left side, sometimes right, but she knows the difference between a runway outfit and one for the street.

And walking arm and arm with a happy man to boot.

——–

* I know, it’s not like I’ve ever been Anna Dello Russo. But I’m even less Anna Dello Russo than I once was.

** And maybe Francis Ford too, sometimes.

*** Sometimes, I also wear a T-shirt, you know.

**** Sainte Phoebe, forgive me. I know. These shoes are not called the Céline Birks. I have no idea what the name of them is. Do they have a name? Feline Birks? Ha!

***** It’s not enough to just claim that you’re a fashion victim, it’s a title that requires some blood, sweat and tears. You gotta earn it.

****** At some point I’ll have to introduce you to Garidontcareaboutshit, who wears only jogging pants all the time. Whoops! You already know her!

******* Yep, my man loves window shopping. More than I do actually.

******* Yeaaaaaah. We’re not in the new Studio yet. Ok ok. I can say I’ve got the totally chill part down, maybe not so much the bourgeois, but chill I’ve got mastered.

I know, I messed up my asterisk count, TOTALLY CHILL, I told you.

Translation : Tim Sullivan