Wearing a black hat and a long coat, her eyes sparkled like Christmas lights.
In winter
she smelled like fire. It was a mixture of new books, cinnamon, orange, raw
writing and sunflowers that made everyone smile at her. She contrasted with the
white landscape: she never smelled like
snow.
Sitting on
a bench, the figure ignored the sights which announced that spring was here:
flowers and birds weren’t interesting at all. The crux of the matter was the
museum’s newest exhibition about Mary Shelley and Lord Byron. She then smelled
like ice, satin and pears; an uncommon scent for an uncommon person, who
refused to wear anything floral in April.
In July,
she was the exact opposite of summer breezes: she enjoyed high temperatures
with freezing air conditioning, which spread her warm scent in the air. Basil,
lilies and burgundy lipstick; dark stripes and round sunglasses, paired with
gladiator sandals, because she was more dramatic than classic tragedy.
Autumn,
then, came as a surprise. She wore white almost every day, as a protest against
“season’s color pallet”. NYFW wasn’t the only fashion dictator there was. She
competed with it every day, with her raspberry and lemons smell. A touch of
washed hair, smoothie and mascara, and she was ready to fight the world.
Her
great-grandmother used to say “Don’t forget to smell the world”. That was now her mantra, her life-decisions
guide, which she religiously repeated every day, while brushing her teeth.
Her life
goal was to show everyone that Carolina Herrera was too démodé.
