Once upon a time, there was a designer named Hedi Slimane. He designed for a brand called Dior Homme. In the year 2006, some might have said he was the most famous living menswear designer in the world. He was the man whose skinny suits changed the way dandy European men dress today. He was the man Karl Lagerfeld anointed a genius, the man who designed menswear so enticing, it prompted King Karl to lose the weight of three supermodels, just so he could fit into Dior Homme.
He was the man whom The New Yorker felt fit to profile, thus telling all the world the secret to Hedi’s famously slender physique. (Answer? Baby food.)
Last night, I introduced myself to Hedi Slimane in the grocery store.
Me: *walking through frozen foods* La, La, la.
*Hedi Slimane approaches from the wine section.*
Wait. Is that? No. Here? But he sure looks....
A second later, he was close enough to where I could have plucked a hair from his monk man bowl cut and I was sure: I WAS PROXIMATE TO HEDI FUCKING SLIMANE.
How did I know it was Hedi Slimane? How could I not know?
He walked past me and I turned on my heels, stalking him at five paces away, all....stalker-like, never taking my eyes away from his low slung black jeans and his black Converse Chucks. Then, he stopped near the fresh herbs! He picked up some prepacked snap peas!
And I just knew I had to make my move right then, before I lost my shit in Monoprix and began calling people saying, “I am proximate to Hedi Fucking Slimane,” but with each passing minute becoming too candyassed to do anything about it.
Me: Excusez-moi? Vous etes créateur?
He spoke softly. He didn’t seem bothered. His eyes were so blue! He was so tall!
Okay, I have to say that InStyle magazine writers piss me off, always talking about how good looking the celebrity is like there’s ANYTHING interesting about that AT ALL. But please understand, Hedi is cute.
And so was his boyfriend with the shopping cart.
So then I told him that what he does is magnificent. Magnifique is the cliché French word that you say if you fucking don’t know French. And pardon my French, but I fucking know a few more words than magnifique for fuck’s sake. I pressed on although my heart was beating like a gerbil on speed. He thanked me, calling me mademoiselle. He was being sincere. Encouraged, I told him that I interned at a fashion magazine in Paris. You know, to build up my credentials.
I have shared the same air with stylists! I’m just like you!
I think he could tell by my pained, I’m Proximate to Hedi Slimane and May Just Lose My Shit look that I wasn’t the chatty, lingering type. Nor was I the type that would stroke his hand or snip a lock of his hair. He could risk a little niceness with me, so he very sweetly said it was vraiment gentil of me to say hello and we wished each other good evenings.
I proceeded to wander the aisles as if on psychedelic drugs, so pumped from those fifteen seconds with Hedi so that I forgot everything I was supposed to buy. But I didn’t forget to buy chocolate. Seemed like a good idea at the time.
Hedi got in my zone of proximity a few minutes later as I was paying for my groceries, but it was almost closing time so he had to go to another register. He didn’t have to be told to go to another register like so many of the people that had come behind me. No, he saw the flashing red "X" that signifies a closed register and figured it out all on his own.
God, I owe you big time for that one. I think it would have taken years off my life if I had had to tell Hedi Fucking Slimane that the line ended at me while he hypothetically would have stood there, taking in the assortment of indiscipline that was my shopping basket, wondering what kind of fan of his buys Pringles?
The man eats baby food, people.
(Which is, of course, what made meeting him in a grocery store so very delicious. I'm pretty sure I saw some solids in that cart.)