Scooter—studying for his SATs—sits next to me on a high stool, both of us facing giant oval mirrors.
“I want sideburns,” Bingo moans. “I need elongation.”
“Forget about natural, Bingo,” Didier says. “Just go for the edge.”
“Doesn’t anyone shampoo anymore?” Velveteen shudders. “My god.”
“I want a rough style, Bingo. I want a bit of meanness. A hidden anger. There has to be a hidden anger. I want the aggressive side to this boy.”
“Aggressive?” Bingo asks. “He’s a pastry chef at Dean & Deluca.”
“I want the aggressive-pastry-chef look.”
“Didier, this boy is about as aggressive as a baby manatee.”
“Oh god, Bingo—you’re such a fussbudget,” Velveteen sighs.
“Am I being challenged?” Didier asks, pacing. “I think not, because I’m getting bored very quickly.”
“Velveteen,” Bingo shouts. “You’re mushing Scooter’s do.”
“Bingo, you’re being a wee bit off.”
“I want extreme,” Didier says. “I want Red Hot Chili Peppers. I want energy.”
“I want a big fat spleef,” Scooter mutters.
“I want garish
and
sexy,” Didier says.
“Let’s usher that combo in, baby.”
“I’m fizzy with excitement,” Didier murmurs thoughtfully. “But where are these boys’ sideburns? I requested sideburns. Bingo? Bingo, where are you?”
“I have sideburns?” I offer, raising my hand. “Uh, dude, that’s facial moisturizer,” I have to point out to Bingo.
“Not
too
in-your-face. Right, Didier?” Velveteen asks sourly. “Not
too
much of that hot Mambo King look.”
We’re all in front of the big blue drape, some of us doing bicep curls with free weights, a couple of us on the floor crunching, and Didier wants cigars and passes them out and Didier wants glycerin because the guys in Bermuda shorts should be crying while smoking cigars because we are sad and smoking cigars in front of the big blue drape which will be the beach.
“Sad
because
we are smoking cigars?” I ask. “Or sad because this is just too ‘Baywatch’?”
“Sad because you are all idiots and just now on this beach you have realized it,” Didier says vaguely, ready to Polaroid.
Scooter looks at his cigar wonderingly.
“Do to that what you did to get this job,” I tell him. “Suck on it.”
Scooter goes pale. “How … did you know?”
“David—remove the nicotine patch,” Didier calls out from behind the camera.
“My girlfriend sees this,” Scooter moans, “and she’s gonna think I’m gay.”
“You still with Felicia?” Rick asks him.
“No, this is some girl I met in the bathroom in the lobby of the Principe di Savoia,” Scooter says blankly. “I was lost and she looked like Sandra Bullock. Or so they say.”
“What’s her name?” David asks.
“Shoo Shoo.”
“Shoo Shoo what?”
“No apparent last name.”
“How did you lose the CK job, man?” Nikitas asks him.
“Calvin got pissed,” Scooter says. “I cut my hair, but it’s considerably more, er, complex than that.”
Silence, a considerable pause, heavy nodding, the camera crew from “Fashion File” still circling.
“Believe me,” I say, holding up my hands, “Calvin and I have tussled many a time.” I do a few more bicep curls.
“Many a time.”
“He gave you pretty good seats for the show, though,” David says, stretching his calf muscles.
“That’s because Chloe was in it,” Rick says.
“I wasn’t at the Calvin Klein show,” I say calmly, then shout, “I
wasn’t
at the fucking Calvin Klein show.”
“There’s a picture of you at the show in
WWD
, baby,” Rick says. “You’re with David and Stephen. In the second row.”
“Someone find me that photo and you shall be proven wrong,” I intone, rubbing my biceps, freezing. “Second row my ass.”
One of the twins is reading today’s WWD and cautiously hands it to me. I grab it and find the photos taken at yesterday’s shows. It’s not a clear photograph: Stephen Dorff, David Salle and
“I want sideburns,” Bingo moans. “I need elongation.”
“Forget about natural, Bingo,” Didier says. “Just go for the edge.”
“Doesn’t anyone shampoo anymore?” Velveteen shudders. “My god.”
“I want a rough style, Bingo. I want a bit of meanness. A hidden anger. There has to be a hidden anger. I want the aggressive side to this boy.”
“Aggressive?” Bingo asks. “He’s a pastry chef at Dean & Deluca.”
“I want the aggressive-pastry-chef look.”
“Didier, this boy is about as aggressive as a baby manatee.”
“Oh god, Bingo—you’re such a fussbudget,” Velveteen sighs.
“Am I being challenged?” Didier asks, pacing. “I think not, because I’m getting bored very quickly.”
“Velveteen,” Bingo shouts. “You’re mushing Scooter’s do.”
“Bingo, you’re being a wee bit off.”
“I want extreme,” Didier says. “I want Red Hot Chili Peppers. I want energy.”
“I want a big fat spleef,” Scooter mutters.
“I want garish
and
sexy,” Didier says.
“Let’s usher that combo in, baby.”
“I’m fizzy with excitement,” Didier murmurs thoughtfully. “But where are these boys’ sideburns? I requested sideburns. Bingo? Bingo, where are you?”
“I have sideburns?” I offer, raising my hand. “Uh, dude, that’s facial moisturizer,” I have to point out to Bingo.
“Not
too
in-your-face. Right, Didier?” Velveteen asks sourly. “Not
too
much of that hot Mambo King look.”
We’re all in front of the big blue drape, some of us doing bicep curls with free weights, a couple of us on the floor crunching, and Didier wants cigars and passes them out and Didier wants glycerin because the guys in Bermuda shorts should be crying while smoking cigars because we are sad and smoking cigars in front of the big blue drape which will be the beach.
“Sad
because
we are smoking cigars?” I ask. “Or sad because this is just too ‘Baywatch’?”
“Sad because you are all idiots and just now on this beach you have realized it,” Didier says vaguely, ready to Polaroid.
Scooter looks at his cigar wonderingly.
“Do to that what you did to get this job,” I tell him. “Suck on it.”
Scooter goes pale. “How … did you know?”
“David—remove the nicotine patch,” Didier calls out from behind the camera.
“My girlfriend sees this,” Scooter moans, “and she’s gonna think I’m gay.”
“You still with Felicia?” Rick asks him.
“No, this is some girl I met in the bathroom in the lobby of the Principe di Savoia,” Scooter says blankly. “I was lost and she looked like Sandra Bullock. Or so they say.”
“What’s her name?” David asks.
“Shoo Shoo.”
“Shoo Shoo what?”
“No apparent last name.”
“How did you lose the CK job, man?” Nikitas asks him.
“Calvin got pissed,” Scooter says. “I cut my hair, but it’s considerably more, er, complex than that.”
Silence, a considerable pause, heavy nodding, the camera crew from “Fashion File” still circling.
“Believe me,” I say, holding up my hands, “Calvin and I have tussled many a time.” I do a few more bicep curls.
“Many a time.”
“He gave you pretty good seats for the show, though,” David says, stretching his calf muscles.
“That’s because Chloe was in it,” Rick says.
“I wasn’t at the Calvin Klein show,” I say calmly, then shout, “I
wasn’t
at the fucking Calvin Klein show.”
“There’s a picture of you at the show in
WWD
, baby,” Rick says. “You’re with David and Stephen. In the second row.”
“Someone find me that photo and you shall be proven wrong,” I intone, rubbing my biceps, freezing. “Second row my ass.”
One of the twins is reading today’s WWD and cautiously hands it to me. I grab it and find the photos taken at yesterday’s shows. It’s not a clear photograph: Stephen Dorff, David Salle and
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