Harry’s fashion week story:

At 7:40 I ran outside my building and tried to hail a cab on Broadway. With no cab in site, I managed to get one of those off-duty town cars and thus, had a difficult decision to make: risk missing front row at Marc Jacobs or get in the car with a slight chance of getting murdered. My decision was obvious. I slammed the door shut I told the driver “26th between Park and Lex.”

After what seemed like forever, we pulled up on the corner of Park and 26th and he gave me the total. So I pulled out my wallet, opened it up, and saw nothing but yuan inside my fabulous Prada happy Chinese New Year pouch. Naturally when I tried to pay the cab driver in yuan he looked at me like I was an utter idiot. Then he began to scream. We argued back and forth until I finally threw my 400 yuan (about $60) into the passenger’s seat and ran. I glanced at my phone and saw it was 7:59. I burst through the throng of photographers hoping to snap a shot of Fergie and ran to the bouncer but then I heard the music begin. I had just joined the famous ranks of those who have missed the Marc Jacobs show.

I found the head guard backstage (read: a bigger much scarier bouncer) we fought back and forth until Ivan Bart form IMG came and settled the problem. He was truly my fashion godmother that night. I began to mingle backstage with fashion’s most elite, including Derek Blasberg, François Nars, Lorenzo Martone, and Marc Jacobs. I felt in awe at the amount of genius in one room.

Then the collection began to unfold before me: polka dot dresses flew by creating a blur of sequins skirts and fur trim collars, there were rubber shirts under peplum dresses, and stiff and shapely silhouettes ranging from early Balenciaga to Alaïa. The entire collection had a playful air and was as close as one gets to perfection.