My 6-Year-Old Daughter Walked in a Paris Couture Show and Magically Started to Behave
My six-year-old daughter has plenty of personality. My friends roll my eyes when I act surprised at this. She kicks my ass every morning by refusing to get dressed for school and then dismissing every weather-appropriate outfit in favor of pajamas and princess dresses. Her school recently contacted me to inform me that she was caught pulling down her panties at the encouragement of her classmates.
Model behavior, maybe not. But a model? She would have her chance: During couture week in Paris, my daughter Afton was invited to make her runway debut in Bonpoint's Fall 2017 fashion show.
I joke that my daughter is a Cara Delevingne in the making. I'm not talking about the model Cara Delevingne, the one who walks for Burberry and Chanel and stars in their ad campaigns. I'm talking about the Cara Delevingne who channeled the dark magic of the evil sorceress, Enchantress, in Suicide Squad. I'm talking about the openly bisexual social media star and animal lover. I can't speak for my daughter's sexuality, though I have caught her watching TV with her hands bound behind her back with hair elastics. I can attest her animal instincts were in full swing once we checked into Le Meurice in Paris and began our tour of the City of Light for the two days prior to the show.
I had reservations about pulling my kids out of school for more than two days. (My four-year-old son Atticus came too.) To that end, terrified of her teacher as I am, I told Afton we were going to Paris to attend a funeral in case she faced scrutiny for her absence upon her return. The Eiffel Tour? The world's largest coffin. The carousel in the Tullieries? A horse-drawn hearse. Models on the runway? The actual procession.
My son usually has a reasonable influence on Afton's lack of boundaries. He follows her lead to a degree but always pulls her back before she topples over the razor's edge. But not so in Paris! Whether it was the pomme frites at Ferdi, the hot chocolate at Angelina, or the honey cake at the Grand Mosque, my angelic four-year turned positively Robespierrean in his bloody march to the Bastille.
Jet lag only served to energize their fervor as they screamed 'Holy Toledo' at the Ferris wheel, threw pieces of donuts at the seagulls causing a Hitchcockian attack on the tourists at the concession stands, or stayed up all night jumping on and then face-planting on the bed, not unlike many of the post-Versace after-after parties I attended in Kate Moss or Naomi Campbell's hotel rooms in the '90s.
At one point, my daughter woke me at 4 a.m. to an overflowing tub full of the contents of my suitcase, the mini-bar, and two stuffed dogs the Meurice had graciously gifted her. While draining the tub, I scooped out handfuls of soggy Pringles before they clogged the drain to the sounds of my son repeatedly screaming "I'm the Hulk!" When his declarations became muffled, I feared my daughter might be smothering him with a pillow, but he had only managed to get himself rolled up like a crepe inside the duvet cover.
The day and call time arrived for me to drop Afton off for hair, makeup, and first looks. Eagerly handing her off, I escaped with my son to tour the Jardin des Plantes outside the Galerie de la Minéralogie, where the show was held, and chain-smoked cigarettes while crouched behind bushes so my son wouldn't see me. Whoever said parenting robbed one of their dignity was making an understatement. Finally, it was time for the show so we headed inside and were led to our seats. I was seated next to Alessandra Ambrosio, Coco Rocha, and W's Stefano Tonchi.
Fashion chat at a kiddie couture show doesn't vary much from the front row of Vuitton or Dior. Summations of opinions of the latest trends glide easily into gossip about recent masthead changes at competitive publications. And like at most runway shows, the chatter continues even after the models commence traipsing down the runway, only at a show full of two- to twelve-year olds, the talk is punctuated with beaucoup goodwill pronouncements like "Adorable!" "So sweet." "Trop mignon!"
After what seemed like the time it took for Napoleon to march on Waterloo, my daughter finally appeared in the first of her three looks: a ruffled top, crew neck vest, jeans, and a bunny ears headband. She walked awkwardly down the runway with stiff-straight too-long legs, and with a shy, if not slightly scared expression on her face. There was none of the attitude or poutiness. Here was the sweet un-precocious daughter I longed for. Thank God they don't prescribe beta-blockers for kids. It just took her facing a crowd of strangers to find some humility, or rather, her metier. She grew more comfortable with each passage, and even blew me a kiss in the finale.
Backstage she was beatific and upbeat. Her dresser said she was well-behaved, though a little brunette at the rack next to Afton wryly commented to me in French "Je suis tres bien comporte." ("I am very well-behaved"). But the Bonpoint staff was thrilled. They all commented on her personality and how she was singing and dancing the entire time before the show. I made a mental note to reach out to Karl Lagerfeld for the next show. I have no desire to entertain a career in fashion for my daughter, but when it comes to what makes her happy, I know I will never be in charge.
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