Paris is kind of the only place you’ll end up at a show whose name you don’t even know.
Take Leonard for example. What the hell is Leonard?
But you never know what you’re going to find. So I sat down and waited with an open mind until they started to run so late, I mean so late, that the photogs started whistling tunes in unison; one even started belting out Nessun Dorma at the top of his lungs.
I ran out to see what Bumble and bumble was up to backstage at Guy Laroche. But that went awry so I snuck back into Leonard, where I’d lost my seat and stood in the back to watch the show.
So what was it? Simple, nothing to-it, and sort of TIbi-esque – but not as good – cute dresses and some flowing summer gowns. I imagine a Real Housewife of Dallas would love it.
And there you have it.
—REBECCA SUHRAWARDI AUSTIN