J: So Karl, what does Cathy think about the totes you designed for the NY Times T magazine?
K: I'm going to make her a tablecloth with the same design on it, for her to put her bacon pies on.
J: Brilliant! And have you tried any of her bacon pies?
K: Non.
J: They're quite the favourite among the..er...farmer sector.
K: Well, I am not a farmer. Even with the Vermont property..
J: And how's that going?
K: I enjoy going there feeling superior to the wildlife. You see, it's fine to feel superior to the fashion wildlife- I already am, anyway, and everyone knows it. But it's another thing to feel superior to Vermont wildlife.
Showing posts with label vermont. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vermont. Show all posts
Monday, September 14, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Love Letter to Roald Dahl (or: Fireside Stories with Karl)
This is a story I somtimes tell my Nieces, when we are all gathered around the fireplace in Vermont.
Once upon a time (in a land far, far away), there lived a group of people called the "Quiggles". The Quiggles would change what they wore every 6 months, and some of them even changed what their pets wore- one Quiggle changed their zebra's stripes every 6 months so by the end of 5 years, the zebra looked like a crossword puzzle with thinly fading lines from last season and "bold new lines" (I'm quoting a newspaper here) from this season. The Quiggles were very protective of their kingdom, and were incredibly hostile to outsiders ("Squiggles") who dared to enter their lands. The Quiggles would say "look! There goes a Squiggle! Look at how he's wearing a scarf from last season! Look at how that jacket seems like it came from a thrift store!" and they'd go "haw haw haw" among themselves, bathing in their own superiority. Because after all, they were Quiggles, were they not? Their culture was so advanced as to have a mechanism where the clothes change every 6 months- they called these "shows", and several cities had a whole week of these shows. Once the shows had been seen, the Quiggles would immediately toss all of last season's clothes into a trashbin and walk naked to the nearest boutique. The Quiggles had gods, like all cultures- the gods would bestow clothes upon the Quiggles every 6 months, as a reward for the great sacrifices the Quiggles made- fasting for long periods of time to fit into artifacts our archaeologists call "dresses", writing vast, fawning pieces about the gods, putting pictures of the god's creations in what they called "magazines"- a kind of altar to the gods. If you go into a museum you'll find some of these "magazines", where you can see the demi-gods- something the Quiggles called "models", posed in positions which presumably mean something; perhaps some sort of hieroglyphics. A "magazine" called "Vogue" had a particular fascination with "models" jumping. We don't know what the jumping means yet. Like the Egyptians, the Quiggles not only wrote in hieroglyphics, but had a Cleopatra like-figure, ruling over them all. Her name can roughly be translated to "Ana", or "Anna".
Anyway, one day in Quiggle Land, the Quiggles found a "magazine" in which there was a non-Quiggle on the cover.
"That....that is a Squiggle" said one unimpressed onlooker, who resumed combing his hair once uttering his only-statement-for-the-day.
"How could a Squiggle be on the cover of one of our precious magazines?" said another bitter Quiggle, her thighs looking like black sausages entrapped in the leggings which was the Quiggle fashion at the time.
"And look at her! She's only....why, she's only a child Squiggle."
"Outrageous!" cried a vast man in a suit which made him look like an umbrella.
"How dare she?! This magazine is an adult magazine" said another onlooker, who wore a bib because it was fashionable.
"Oh, I don't know- I just don't know. This magazine used to be adult and now it has a Squiggle on it! Not only a Squiggle, but a child Squiggle!"
-And on they went, telling anyone who could bear to listen to them that their magazine was a thoroughly adult magazine.
"What, is it like- Playboy or something?" said Woody Horyn, who stumbled onto the scene after raiding the muffin bakery.
"NO!" the entire crowd of Quiggles roared- "it is a adult magazine with adult themes like uh..."
"Well?" said Woody Horyn. The crowd turned away rather sheepishly.
"It says here", a lone voice piped up from the crowd", that this Squiggle-child has a "blog."
Now, a blog is rather similar to a treehouse if none of you know. You can find them in all good diary's.
"Ludicrous! Her Squiggle-parents must write this for her!"
"Ridiculous!"
"Squiggle-children" said a particular loathsome voice in a particularly loathsome manner. "Squiggle-children are foul and filthy!"
"They are! They are!" chorused the Quiggle-crowd, at which point I noticed the voice was coming from a woman dressed in gloves.
"Squiggle-chidren are smalling of dogs' drrrroopppings!"
"Eww!" cried the crowd, "Ewww! Ewww! Eww!"
"Ve must have only QUIGGLES on the cover of magazines!" shouted the lady in gloves.
"Only Quiggles! Only Quiggles!" cheered the crowd.
"None of zis- zis children"
"No children! No children" echoed the crowd, and I imagine it must've felt a bit like a children's television show at this point.
"Magazines are ze business of adddults! Zis....zis business is far too important to leave to ze children!"
"Magazines matter! Magazines matter!" at which point I imagine the on-looker would think they'd've stumbled upon a Conde Nast meeting.
"I do not care if vis child...vis SQUIGGLE child is creative! Fashion is very important! It is elitist! Telling you to wear umbrellas on your head is an Important Thing! What vill happen if we let children into it?"
"They will ruin it!" the crowd roared.
"Yes! They vill ruin it and burn it and stink the place out!"
"Ruin-it, burn-it, stink-the-place-out" chanted the crowd.
"You know, this Squiggle-child is actually more interesting than what most of you write", murmured Woody Horyn.
"BUT IS SHE AN ADULT?" the lady in gloves spat, projecting spit which would later land on Mars prompting David Bowie to write his hit song"Is There Life on Mars?"
"Does it matter that if she's an adult or not?"
"Of course it does!" said the woman we saw earlier, who was in the leggings which were far too tight for her- and she still is.
"Why?" questioned Woody Horyn.
"Because...because...because....she's a nobody! She's not a Quiggle! She hasn't done a pole-dance on MTV like that great role model, Miley Cyrus!"
"Well, you know..." said Woody Horyn, and he began to sing:
Once upon a time (in a land far, far away), there lived a group of people called the "Quiggles". The Quiggles would change what they wore every 6 months, and some of them even changed what their pets wore- one Quiggle changed their zebra's stripes every 6 months so by the end of 5 years, the zebra looked like a crossword puzzle with thinly fading lines from last season and "bold new lines" (I'm quoting a newspaper here) from this season. The Quiggles were very protective of their kingdom, and were incredibly hostile to outsiders ("Squiggles") who dared to enter their lands. The Quiggles would say "look! There goes a Squiggle! Look at how he's wearing a scarf from last season! Look at how that jacket seems like it came from a thrift store!" and they'd go "haw haw haw" among themselves, bathing in their own superiority. Because after all, they were Quiggles, were they not? Their culture was so advanced as to have a mechanism where the clothes change every 6 months- they called these "shows", and several cities had a whole week of these shows. Once the shows had been seen, the Quiggles would immediately toss all of last season's clothes into a trashbin and walk naked to the nearest boutique. The Quiggles had gods, like all cultures- the gods would bestow clothes upon the Quiggles every 6 months, as a reward for the great sacrifices the Quiggles made- fasting for long periods of time to fit into artifacts our archaeologists call "dresses", writing vast, fawning pieces about the gods, putting pictures of the god's creations in what they called "magazines"- a kind of altar to the gods. If you go into a museum you'll find some of these "magazines", where you can see the demi-gods- something the Quiggles called "models", posed in positions which presumably mean something; perhaps some sort of hieroglyphics. A "magazine" called "Vogue" had a particular fascination with "models" jumping. We don't know what the jumping means yet. Like the Egyptians, the Quiggles not only wrote in hieroglyphics, but had a Cleopatra like-figure, ruling over them all. Her name can roughly be translated to "Ana", or "Anna".
Anyway, one day in Quiggle Land, the Quiggles found a "magazine" in which there was a non-Quiggle on the cover.
"That....that is a Squiggle" said one unimpressed onlooker, who resumed combing his hair once uttering his only-statement-for-the-day.
"How could a Squiggle be on the cover of one of our precious magazines?" said another bitter Quiggle, her thighs looking like black sausages entrapped in the leggings which was the Quiggle fashion at the time.
"And look at her! She's only....why, she's only a child Squiggle."
"Outrageous!" cried a vast man in a suit which made him look like an umbrella.
"How dare she?! This magazine is an adult magazine" said another onlooker, who wore a bib because it was fashionable.
"Oh, I don't know- I just don't know. This magazine used to be adult and now it has a Squiggle on it! Not only a Squiggle, but a child Squiggle!"
-And on they went, telling anyone who could bear to listen to them that their magazine was a thoroughly adult magazine.
"What, is it like- Playboy or something?" said Woody Horyn, who stumbled onto the scene after raiding the muffin bakery.
"NO!" the entire crowd of Quiggles roared- "it is a adult magazine with adult themes like uh..."
"Well?" said Woody Horyn. The crowd turned away rather sheepishly.
"It says here", a lone voice piped up from the crowd", that this Squiggle-child has a "blog."
Now, a blog is rather similar to a treehouse if none of you know. You can find them in all good diary's.
"Ludicrous! Her Squiggle-parents must write this for her!"
"Ridiculous!"
"Squiggle-children" said a particular loathsome voice in a particularly loathsome manner. "Squiggle-children are foul and filthy!"
"They are! They are!" chorused the Quiggle-crowd, at which point I noticed the voice was coming from a woman dressed in gloves.
"Squiggle-chidren are smalling of dogs' drrrroopppings!"
"Eww!" cried the crowd, "Ewww! Ewww! Eww!"
"Ve must have only QUIGGLES on the cover of magazines!" shouted the lady in gloves.
"Only Quiggles! Only Quiggles!" cheered the crowd.
"None of zis- zis children"
"No children! No children" echoed the crowd, and I imagine it must've felt a bit like a children's television show at this point.
"Magazines are ze business of adddults! Zis....zis business is far too important to leave to ze children!"
"Magazines matter! Magazines matter!" at which point I imagine the on-looker would think they'd've stumbled upon a Conde Nast meeting.
"I do not care if vis child...vis SQUIGGLE child is creative! Fashion is very important! It is elitist! Telling you to wear umbrellas on your head is an Important Thing! What vill happen if we let children into it?"
"They will ruin it!" the crowd roared.
"Yes! They vill ruin it and burn it and stink the place out!"
"Ruin-it, burn-it, stink-the-place-out" chanted the crowd.
"You know, this Squiggle-child is actually more interesting than what most of you write", murmured Woody Horyn.
"BUT IS SHE AN ADULT?" the lady in gloves spat, projecting spit which would later land on Mars prompting David Bowie to write his hit song"Is There Life on Mars?"
"Does it matter that if she's an adult or not?"
"Of course it does!" said the woman we saw earlier, who was in the leggings which were far too tight for her- and she still is.
"Why?" questioned Woody Horyn.
"Because...because...because....she's a nobody! She's not a Quiggle! She hasn't done a pole-dance on MTV like that great role model, Miley Cyrus!"
"Well, you know..." said Woody Horyn, and he began to sing:
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Carols, part II
Just one carol today. I'm in Vermont with Tom and Katie. Yeah, that Tom and Katie; and my young protege Karoline. Tom and Katie are hilarious, of course. Oh! And they have some little baby. I wasn't really too keen on that idea. I mean, it's a bit like taking your pets on holiday, hmm? The baby's name is Suri or something. It's nice that all she wears is baby Chanel, but still...
It's not like she's my assistant designer or anything. She's just a BABY. And she doesn't do anything! She can't even sketch! I don't understand it. It's not like my child was ever a baby (I'm not admitting to it, anyway. Never).
Anyway. I'll just avoid Le Baby. You should see her. The way she stares at me. She's got something in for me, I tell you. And then she says "Mamma! Mamma!", which I'm convinced is a kind of swear word, because every time she does that Katie gets out some kind of crack for children. She calls it "Apple mash" or something. And then Le Baby makes some slurping sound, but I know that it's code for "Karl, you better watch your step".
Luckily there's a closet here. I'm hiding in here with Karoline for the meantime. Yohji's meant to arrive in his batplane any minute now.
Anyway, there's a little carol below for all of you to sing. And below that is my reply to Jeunesse, in brackets. It concerns fattie school teachers, and just may branch off into it's own post, in the furture!
The 12 days of Chic-mas.
(Yes, I know it doesn't follow the form strictly at all. And I don't care. I'm Karl. Also, this is not the Noel Coward one. Just insert an instrumental solo into it, hmm?)
On the first day of Chic-mas,
my true love muse sent to me,
a Chanel fishing rod
On the second day of Chic-mas,
Anna sent to me,
a fur coat made of vodka
On the third day of Chic-mas,
the fatties sent to me,
some vulgar gift from a celebrity brand
On the fourth day of Chic-mas
Jane sent to me,
a giant shoe shaped collar
On the fifth day of Chic-mas,
the fatties called again,
and I threw them on a grill
On the sixth day of Chic-mas,
Yves sent to me,
a letter, claiming he was dead
On the seventh day of Chic-mas,
Rei sent to me,
a polka dotted unicorn or three
On the eighth day of Chic-mas,
Tavi sent to me,
a spaceship to eliminate the demode
On the ninth day of Chic-mas,
Bob Dylan gave to me,
a lightbulb to keep a clear head
On the tenth day of Chic-mas,
The surviving demode offered to me,
some purses at half price (I threw up)
On the eleventh day of Chic-mas,
an ex model gave to me,
some cocaine and a pipe for thee
On the twelfth day of Chic-mas,
I gifted to me,
a house made in my own very likeness
-
(Jeunesse, how very horrible! You know, it warms my ice-cold heart to know that some children have the beginnings of chic-ness! Say hello to your daughter for me, and make sure you give the fattie teacher a portrait of me. In fact, give all the adults a picture of me! I'm sure they secretly fantasize about me, as all people do. It's just a fact, hmm?)
It's not like she's my assistant designer or anything. She's just a BABY. And she doesn't do anything! She can't even sketch! I don't understand it. It's not like my child was ever a baby (I'm not admitting to it, anyway. Never).
Anyway. I'll just avoid Le Baby. You should see her. The way she stares at me. She's got something in for me, I tell you. And then she says "Mamma! Mamma!", which I'm convinced is a kind of swear word, because every time she does that Katie gets out some kind of crack for children. She calls it "Apple mash" or something. And then Le Baby makes some slurping sound, but I know that it's code for "Karl, you better watch your step".
Luckily there's a closet here. I'm hiding in here with Karoline for the meantime. Yohji's meant to arrive in his batplane any minute now.
Anyway, there's a little carol below for all of you to sing. And below that is my reply to Jeunesse, in brackets. It concerns fattie school teachers, and just may branch off into it's own post, in the furture!
The 12 days of Chic-mas.
(Yes, I know it doesn't follow the form strictly at all. And I don't care. I'm Karl. Also, this is not the Noel Coward one. Just insert an instrumental solo into it, hmm?)
On the first day of Chic-mas,
my true love muse sent to me,
a Chanel fishing rod
On the second day of Chic-mas,
Anna sent to me,
a fur coat made of vodka
On the third day of Chic-mas,
the fatties sent to me,
some vulgar gift from a celebrity brand
On the fourth day of Chic-mas
Jane sent to me,
a giant shoe shaped collar
On the fifth day of Chic-mas,
the fatties called again,
and I threw them on a grill
On the sixth day of Chic-mas,
Yves sent to me,
a letter, claiming he was dead
On the seventh day of Chic-mas,
Rei sent to me,
a polka dotted unicorn or three
On the eighth day of Chic-mas,
Tavi sent to me,
a spaceship to eliminate the demode
On the ninth day of Chic-mas,
Bob Dylan gave to me,
a lightbulb to keep a clear head
On the tenth day of Chic-mas,
The surviving demode offered to me,
some purses at half price (I threw up)
On the eleventh day of Chic-mas,
an ex model gave to me,
some cocaine and a pipe for thee
On the twelfth day of Chic-mas,
I gifted to me,
a house made in my own very likeness
-
(Jeunesse, how very horrible! You know, it warms my ice-cold heart to know that some children have the beginnings of chic-ness! Say hello to your daughter for me, and make sure you give the fattie teacher a portrait of me. In fact, give all the adults a picture of me! I'm sure they secretly fantasize about me, as all people do. It's just a fact, hmm?)
Friday, November 14, 2008
Giant Runway
I got a call from my architect, Nic, today. He says we can't build the giant runway through the Vermont property. Actually my idea was to have a giant runway through Vermont; as in, all of Vermont. A giant, glowing, mirrored runway. Very glossy, hmm? Call it "LIFE'S RUNWAY" or something. I thought we could have models who walk down the entire runway, which would take a long time as you can imagine. We could have models that live on the runway, so they are Living Fashion, hmm? There would be no need for the chic to live on the streets. No, they would just live on the eternal runway. We could gather all the chic people; put them on the runway, and I could say "RUN DARLINGS RUN!" and they would never, ever have to get off that elevated peak; and therefore be cut off from the world and all of it's demode-ness. We would have planes drop off supplies-- new clothes for each season; etc etc. Diet Coke would be pumped through what currently is their "water system". The chic people would be able to have their own chic fights and bitchery; and Anna and I could laugh at them from the ivory tower built above the giant runway.
It's like the "GREAT RUNWAY OF VERMONT".
And then the models would get old and would be tossed off the runway to make room for new models; the old models would become wannabe members of the Le Skinny Jeans society, but of course they cannot be members of the Le Skinny Jeans society as you have to be in Paris for this, hmm? It would be survival of the chic-est, hmm? And tiny little sub-civilisations would appear: THE MASCARAS, THE EYELINERS, THE BERETS, THE WAYFARERS, THE TIGHTS, THE PROFESSIONAL MALE MODELS-- oh, it would be wonderful. The wayfarers would stare jealously at the tights, wishing that they had thighs as skinny; whilst the professional male models...well....let's just say Anna knows what to do with them, no? Effectively they would become a slave culture totally and utterly dedicated to trying on underwear for Anna, so the idea of wearing clothes will become foreign to them. They would stride 'round, until they turn 25, when they, like the male anorexic spider, are eaten by the queen Bee.
Imagine the entry in Vogue:
"In the beginning, Karl created the runway. And he said, "It shall be chic", and it was.
But Nic says that this plan is 1) illegal, and 2) would consume all the power in Vermont.
And I said: "Do they have power in Vermont, anyway?"
And he said: "Ummm. You were just in Vermont"
So I said: "But there is power no matter where I go; for the Chanel suit is chic."
So he assured me that the good people in Vermont have power, even when I am not there.
This is a problem. I want my giant runway. I WANT MY GIANT RUNWAY, GODDAMMIT.
It's like the "GREAT RUNWAY OF VERMONT".
And then the models would get old and would be tossed off the runway to make room for new models; the old models would become wannabe members of the Le Skinny Jeans society, but of course they cannot be members of the Le Skinny Jeans society as you have to be in Paris for this, hmm? It would be survival of the chic-est, hmm? And tiny little sub-civilisations would appear: THE MASCARAS, THE EYELINERS, THE BERETS, THE WAYFARERS, THE TIGHTS, THE PROFESSIONAL MALE MODELS-- oh, it would be wonderful. The wayfarers would stare jealously at the tights, wishing that they had thighs as skinny; whilst the professional male models...well....let's just say Anna knows what to do with them, no? Effectively they would become a slave culture totally and utterly dedicated to trying on underwear for Anna, so the idea of wearing clothes will become foreign to them. They would stride 'round, until they turn 25, when they, like the male anorexic spider, are eaten by the queen Bee.
Imagine the entry in Vogue:
"In the beginning, Karl created the runway. And he said, "It shall be chic", and it was.
But Nic says that this plan is 1) illegal, and 2) would consume all the power in Vermont.
And I said: "Do they have power in Vermont, anyway?"
And he said: "Ummm. You were just in Vermont"
So I said: "But there is power no matter where I go; for the Chanel suit is chic."
So he assured me that the good people in Vermont have power, even when I am not there.
This is a problem. I want my giant runway. I WANT MY GIANT RUNWAY, GODDAMMIT.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
What is this Vermont?
Karl told me he bought property in Vermont.
I had to look up what exactly this Vermont is. Look! I had the assistants research:
Vermont is a state. It is woodsy and somewhat demode. It has less people in it than my apartment building does.
Anyway, Karl had me out to 'hang out' as he likes to say. And there are guns in Vermont.
GUNS.
Adoring public, I feel like I am quite intimidating on my own. Now imagine me with a shotgun. Apparently my assistants felt this, as they bolted. Some were later found hiding in the cellar. (What on earth is a cellar?)
Karl is remodeling the place... I suggested jokingly that he could turn it into KarlLand - a theme park for the chic. His eyes lit up (behind the Dior Hommes, obviously) and then I wished I hadn't said anything.
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Englishwomen Anna
So we're in Vermont, as most of you stalkers would know; and Anna's discovered she's a really great shooter.
Ducks; birds; assistants- it doesn't matter. She's got the camo gear (Chanel, of course) and gun (again Chanel) and everything else. She reminds me of a Tory-voting British country-lady; the sort with hairs of her face protruding outwards. She rather suits this role, I think.
"RRREADY"
"AIMM"
"FIIRREE"
And then she screams "PEEETTTTTTTTTTAAAAAAAAA" really loud.
The Vogue offices are going to be a bit different from now on.
(And oh, Anna's still upset at the closing down of Men's Vogue. It provided her with...underwear models and such. I'm upset too. I thought that was the point of her little magazine?).
Ducks; birds; assistants- it doesn't matter. She's got the camo gear (Chanel, of course) and gun (again Chanel) and everything else. She reminds me of a Tory-voting British country-lady; the sort with hairs of her face protruding outwards. She rather suits this role, I think.
"RRREADY"
"AIMM"
"FIIRREE"
And then she screams "PEEETTTTTTTTTTAAAAAAAAA" really loud.
The Vogue offices are going to be a bit different from now on.
(And oh, Anna's still upset at the closing down of Men's Vogue. It provided her with...underwear models and such. I'm upset too. I thought that was the point of her little magazine?).
Saturday, October 4, 2008
I'm setting up camp in Vermont
Yes, it's true. You've probably heard about it on the news; on the lips of the gossips; in those "blogs" or whatever they call them that people write. I'm buying a place in Vermont.
It's all very Emily Dickinson- I'm sure you heard that quote from me in the article, of course. I spent all morning, from 3 AM to 4 AM thinking it up. I don't sleep.
I paced the room muttering outloud. Eventually I decided Dickinson would be the best reference to make. How very Proustian.
And I spent all of the Chanel show whilst I ate an M&M (an M&M! How could I?) thinking up the Proust reference. How very Genghis Khan.
And I spent all of my time in China where I hid in closets from the Communists thinking up the Genghis Khan reference.
Oh dear, I could go on with this for hours.
I didn't really actually spend any time thinking any of those up. I just wanted to say that. How chic. How very now.
What I'm going to do in Vermont is put on my Emily Dickinson wig and pretend to be "Karl Dickinson" and romp through the countryside with Brad dressed as my loyal manservant "Albert". That is the intention. I might write some poetry too. In the wig, of course. The wig is key.
When I design my Chanel collections I wear my Coco Chanel wig (the one she wore herself), and when I design the Fendi collections I wear hair I cut off the tails of the most chic horses. When I design Karl Lagerfeld it is fine; I wear my normal hair. Extra dry shampoo for that extra-white effect.
I could have a commerical:
"IN ONLY FIVE MINUTES YOU TOO WILL HAVE HAIR LIKE KARL LAGERFELD'S!"
Apart from commericals are so commercial, hmm? The problem is that they are ruined by being stacked with bad, tacky commericals. Imagine a KFC commerical after a Karl Lagerfeld's Chic Shampoo for White Hair commerical.
Not so chic, huh?
It's all very Emily Dickinson- I'm sure you heard that quote from me in the article, of course. I spent all morning, from 3 AM to 4 AM thinking it up. I don't sleep.
I paced the room muttering outloud. Eventually I decided Dickinson would be the best reference to make. How very Proustian.
And I spent all of the Chanel show whilst I ate an M&M (an M&M! How could I?) thinking up the Proust reference. How very Genghis Khan.
And I spent all of my time in China where I hid in closets from the Communists thinking up the Genghis Khan reference.
Oh dear, I could go on with this for hours.
I didn't really actually spend any time thinking any of those up. I just wanted to say that. How chic. How very now.
What I'm going to do in Vermont is put on my Emily Dickinson wig and pretend to be "Karl Dickinson" and romp through the countryside with Brad dressed as my loyal manservant "Albert". That is the intention. I might write some poetry too. In the wig, of course. The wig is key.
When I design my Chanel collections I wear my Coco Chanel wig (the one she wore herself), and when I design the Fendi collections I wear hair I cut off the tails of the most chic horses. When I design Karl Lagerfeld it is fine; I wear my normal hair. Extra dry shampoo for that extra-white effect.
I could have a commerical:
"IN ONLY FIVE MINUTES YOU TOO WILL HAVE HAIR LIKE KARL LAGERFELD'S!"
Apart from commericals are so commercial, hmm? The problem is that they are ruined by being stacked with bad, tacky commericals. Imagine a KFC commerical after a Karl Lagerfeld's Chic Shampoo for White Hair commerical.
Not so chic, huh?
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