Wow. I’m tired. It’s just 7.18pm on Monday, and I’m about to crash hard. In fact, I think I crashed at 2pm today so this’ll be a post-crash crash.
Let me run you through the events from the beginning.
This morning I woke at 3.30am (hell no, it weren’t naturally) and dragged my narrow-eyed self into the shower. By 3.58am, I was completely dressed and ready; confirming my scheduled Uber trip and saying my good byes to A.J.
This would be the first time I’d fly domestically in Australia. And naturally (or completely unnecessarily — you decide), this evoked several stresses on my end. I should note firstly, that I’m far from acquainted with having multiple airports in a single city. How damn confusing (not only when you’re booking tickets but also when you go to fly).
In Auckland and in Wellington too, we have just one. So in the scenario you do refer to the airport, we New Zealanders know exactly the eagle to picture, or, the McDonalds at which you purchased your early morning hash browns.
En route to the airport (if I can even speak that generally), I had a slight freak out that I’d booked my Uber for Avalon, while my flight was actually leaving from Tullamarine. Of course, this stress was felt just momentarily, solved by the asking of a single question.
I could breathe again when my Uber driver confirmed that the airport we were approaching was, indeed, Tullamarine. To my relief, the rest of the journey was reasonably smooth — much like flying from Wellington to Auckland.
I had only two concerns aboard the 5.45am Jetstar flight to Sydney: 1) When were they planning to serve coffee? And 2) Would this dent in my head from taking a brief nap disappear? Or remain in the middle of my forehead for the remainder of the day?
Spoiler alert: it slowly (but surely) disappeared by the time we reached Sydney airport (thank god this city has just one).
After being stuck in morning traffic in the second Uber of the day (by now, it was 7.30am), I eventually arrived at my hotel, The Collectionist. From here, I not-so-quickly chose my room (and for once, this wasn’t just because I’m indecisive as hell). More on the genius concept that is this hotel later — for now, let’s just say I settled in quite nicely.
Not much later, my MBFW make-up artist, Therese Kazzi, would arrive. In the best way possible, she proceeded to take over my hotel room with her extensive kit. While we talked careers, family, travel and more, the gorgeous Therese made me up to be the face in these photos.
Honestly, if you’re ever heading Sydney way for some sort of event or occasion, I’d 100% recommend booking with Therese. She did exactly what I wanted (a natural, bronzed look) in the time I’d asked (around an hour and 15 minutes, inclusive of any touch-ups I desired). If this weren’t enough, she’s also just an insanely lovely person. She knows her craft, she’s reliable and honestly, had I the skills she does, I’d probably wear make-up more often (which is saying a lot for me).
After rallying my outfits together, I jumped in an Uber on the way to Carriageworks and was met by a plethora of colour, prints and wide-legged pants. Let it be said that there is no easier occasion than outside Fashion Week, to decipher lasting trends and too, the effect of Man Repeller.
Amid a crowd of street style photographers, I located the talented Anzu Prenter, who I’d be working with. Aside many head-bowed and hand-raised folk doing the exact same thing (a faux walk), we shot several of my Fashion Week outfits. As per usual, there was chaos in the form of nip-slips and semi-public quick changes. There were equally close calls with several sleek Mercedes Benz too.
As I touched on in my previous post about Fashion Week, these moments certainly lose and have lost their shock factor. For my boob to pop out.. feels normal. And at the very least, it is expected. Okay, so I’m exaggerating a tiny bit (not about the boob popping out, but the normalcy of it all). You get my point.
And so the day proceeded — filled by a multitude of shows, private appointments at The Suites (designer showrooms), greetings with familiar faces, introductions with the less so, and lots, lots more. That I made it until 8pm on a bag of Kettle’s salt and vinegar chips, a cup of coffee and two squares of fruit & nut chocolate (I thought it was Black Forest when I bought it) is both a feat and not something I’m overly proud of.
What I’ve already learned: listen to your own advice and make sure to bring snacks. Lots of them. Also, don’t eat the bliss balls you plan on taking, the day before you leave for Fashion Week. This is not helpful either.
Technically, today (Monday) was Day Two of Fashion Week. After all, the opening was on Sunday evening (prior to when I’d arrived in Sydney). What stood out to me amidst Day Two shows, then, was ready-to-wear womenswear label Anna Quan.
Quan’s Holiday Resort ’19 collection was sophisticated and smart. It would challenge the everyday woman with bold reds and aqua blues, and yet comfort her with timeless navies and resort-wear beige. Quan knows how to compliment a woman, her collection filled with tailored pants and oversized shirts, resting so beautifully on the collarbone.
Anna Quan has made even the signature laboratory coat look sexy and holiday-ready. This collection is for a most sophisticated and luxury traveller, as much as it is for the everyday determined and fashion-forward woman.
What a clever compilation that depicts true understanding of contemporary women: not just who we are and what we like to wear, but what we feel our absolute best in too.
I arrived home after my shows at about 7pm, undeniably shattered from my 3am wake-up and a full day that followed on — this included as well, tending to some last minute digital marketing work for my clients.
So what’s the note I’m leaving Day Two on?
Man, it’s tough to balance everything you want to do. It’s tough to go out there and do it on your own too. But it’s this sort of hard work, this sort of challenge, that makes me proud to be me. The one constantly throwing herself right in the middle of it.
Photography by Anzu Prenter
Make-up by Therese Kazzi