Never wear pink to a fashion show...

...or you might be mistaken for a Barbie. Lace gloves and curly hair? Also a bad idea. L'ordre du jour last night was black sheaths and stick-straight locks, with a blasé expression the cherry on top. In my bright pink tulle, I stuck out like a ballerina in a crowd of Goths. (Very stylish Goths. Only one person had black lipstick.)

Thankfully, the clothing on display was gorgeous enough to be an amazing distraction... It was actually too good. I was so distracted that I didn't notice the imminent approach of the Hairstylist Of Doom. (Capitals definitely necessary.) Before I could emerge from my fashion-induced haze, she had pushed me into her chair and was filling my hair with enough spray to gag an elephant. I think I passed out. (Another reason why I need to start carrying around a gas mask. The primary one is that it would scare people away, so I wouldn't have to worry about this in the first place.)

When I woke up, the first thing I noticed was the scent of burnt hair. I was surrounded by showgoers who had lost their disinterestedness. Instead, they were all staring at my head while wearing the pinched expressions of people trying not to breathe. As I looked up, not one of them met my gaze; they all just backed away with fear in their eyes, like you would if you'd seen a rabid chipmunk. (There are a surprising number around here.)

I still haven't dared to look at myself.

For the rest of the night, whenever I walked near them, people began sniffing with a bemused expression. One woman, sneer firmly affixed, asked me what the name of my perfume was. I told her it was Cheveux Brûlés- she replied, "Oh, French- I should have known." and walked away. (Was that a slur? Probably. And we're supposed to be a bilingual country. I hope she tripped and fell off her penguin platforms. And yes, I do mean penguins. Her shoes were made out of about fifty tiny penguin figurines- so why was she laughing at me?)

And that's another thing. I could easily have been confused with a midget. There should be some kind of law against 5ft10 models wearing 6-inch heels. It makes us poor petites look like we belong to a race of dwarfs. (Now that I come to think of it... maybe that's why the hairstylist chose me. She just wanted to make me seem taller. Since I can still feel my hair standing straight up, I suppose she succeeded.)