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Wherever I looked the surface was smooth, undisturbed, and after a time I lost interest. The floods of clothing were brought in, rack after rack, invading the room like a small army. One by one the clothing was removed from its hanger, in turn being draped over a mannequin or squeezed onto a model. Editors, photographers, designers, assistants filed in, immediately observing and critiquing what stood before their eyes. Fabrics were sliced, skirts were hemmed, hats were thrust off joining the growing pile of the unfits. This process went on at the speed of Vogue being sold out, and the room was emptied in what seemed to be the blink of an eye. Finished with one fitting and off to the next; if only there was a runway leading to an escape from this hell.

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Wherever I looked the surface was smooth, undisturbed, and after a time I lost interest. The criss-crossed pattern of the coarse wool consisting of shades ranging of every tint of purple; deep mahogany wound with delicate shades of plum. A pencil skirt made to fit only a hipless wonder, designed to hang lightly just below a miniscule waist and fall slightly above the knees. The deep coffee stitching stood profound and bold, doing its job of bounding not only the pieces of fabric but also uniting the lure of the skirt. The silk, pale violet lining hugged the owner, allowing each step to be made with fluid poise and dignity. At the hip stood three gold buttons, however not a harsh gold like that of a Buddha doll but instead projecting a luscious golden aura, holding an appearance causing all viewers to melt with envy. These buttons were placed three in a row, fastened with thread resembling a deep red wine. Standing bold and daring, the buttons what caused this piece to be voted a “must-have,” “skirt of the year,” and spotted on celebrities of all ages. All thanks to me, who dug this, once piece of futile cloth thrown aside at one of the millions of fittings, from the depths of the hallows; inviting it back to the atmosphere of success. Pairing the number with embroidered chocolate tights, elegant yet classy deep mauve pumps, a soothing cocoa skin hugging turtle neck along with a simple clutch blanketed in auburn, golden and ginger jewels, my task had been completed once again. I had subconsciously pieced together an outfit; thought of personally as just another ensemble, but to the rest of the world, fashion magazine cover worthy. And yet this went with no recognition, no appreciation, no gratitude shown whatsoever. If only one could change identities as rapidly one does clothing…