General13 Jun 2007 03:19 pm

We have a ‘fashion guru’ of sorts here at work. He’s a super slim, fast walking, faster talking slick dresser who does all of our fashion layouts. He’ll come into the office with some amazonian woman, laden with pink Holt Renfrew bags, Balenciaga purses tumbling out nonchalantly while he collects the studio key or asks who his assigned photographer is.

You see, apart from this man, the news room is a bit devoid of fashion. There are pockets, here and there. Mostly on the floor where they keep the marketing people. One of the city deskers got some new shoes recently and they were the highlight of the day in the newsroom. One of the war correspondants, who at 6’6″ is no small man, came in wearing short shorts the other day and then, to the dismay of everyone I’m sure, loudly stated he had forgotten his slacks.

Anyhow, fashion is not on the forefront of most of these people’s minds. So while I do not feel gutsy enough to wear my crazy pink legwarmers (maybe on my last day) and continue to demurely wear a tank top under my open-back shirts, I still dress fairly well.

That is, except on the days our fashion guru happens to come in. One day, I had dutifully straightened my hair, but been caught in the rain. As I tried frantically to wrangle the don’t into a do, striding across the newsroom floor was the stylist, complete with hair stylists and five chic hair models in tow. Great.

One day, I turned away from my desk to get a print out, and spilled my tea all over my skirt in the process…of course on the one skirt I own that is not a blissful stain-camouflaging shade of black. It had been drying into a beautiful avant-garde tea stained splotch when, of course, the fashionistas arrived. He asked who his photographer was, while eyeing the hard to miss blotch on my skirt. “That happens to me all the time,” he said, pitingly.

We both know it doesn’t.

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