AKA I moved to Paris two days before fashion week.
And I survived to tell the story.
Nobody does it like Celine. To quote Rachel Zoe: “I DIE.”
It’s a sunny morning as I go past the security guard at the Balenciaga headquarters. 36 hours ago, I was shouting at a woman on the street. In my defence, she yelled first. “You can’t leave trash at the front of the building,” she said in French. “Madame, this is the entirety of my belongings,” I replied in English. It was raining in Paris, and my cardboard boxes were disintegrating right before my eyes as I stuffed fistfuls of books from the fully disintegrated ones into an Ikea bag. I chose to move to the city of love two days before the beginning of men’s fashion week. “Well, I have to be there anyway, might as well,” I told myself. 48 hours full of Ikea trips, Clorox, sweat, blood (it was a paper cut, but it counts), and tears, made the argument null. But, despite early tensions with elderly neighbours and water damage in my magazine collection, here I am, looking at some fab clothes.
My current life in a nutshell.
It’s the first time I get to see Pier Paolo Piccioli’s Balenciaga in real life. After his debut, where house codes were autopsied individually, Pre-Fall 2026 feels a confident push towards a unifying theory. Looking to consolidate the maison’s past and present, Piccioli looks at athleisure as a symbol of Balenciaga’s impact on the body through its eras. It’s smart. It’s cool. And, maybe most important of all, it’s desirable. The collaboration with Manolo Blahnik is delicious (and made numbers on my stories), and I can’t think of anything hotter than an oversized Balenciaga gym bag with a matching yoga mat.
Keep on serving cunt: Balenciaga x Manolo Blahnik mules.
I leave the presentation feeling invigorated. Nothing like high fashion in the morning to make you feel alive, so much so that I decide to walk home. The weather is nice, why not? Well, no, because it takes me over 45 minutes to get home, and by the time I make it, I have to leave to make it to the Études Studio Fall/Winter 2026 show on time. The Parisian brand, known for its tailored take on menswear, is showing right outside the Pompidou. I think I’m going to be late, but of course, by the time I make it, no one has even been let in the venue. My tardiness found its home in the fashion industry. When the show eventually starts, 30 minutes later, French cowboys walk the runway. Equipped with rigid hats and voluminous puffers, models look about as interesting as any person could.
Immediately after, I ran home to write. My vitamin D-induced jolliness didn’t quite cover the overwhelming amount of work I needed to do. Thankfully, it was a slow day as fashion week goes. The only other reason I have to leave home is at 8 pm, for Phileo’s store opening in the 11éme. I have met Philéo Landowski a couple of times before, but I’ve heard his name a lot more than that. Not only are his shoes spectacular, but he’s also somewhat of a golden child of the industry, having skyrocketed in the ranks very early on. So much so that, in conversation, I found out he’s younger than I am – gay gasp! He’s also one of the sweetest people I’ve ever met. The shoes in the store are beyond. I’ve been eyeing these long cowhide Mary Janes since last season (their shoes all go to a 45, so this is our time to shine, long-footed divas!).
Phileo Mary Janes. Available up to size 45, boys!
I spend the following morning locked in my apartment writing until around midday, when I remember about the Acne Studios presentation. It’s across town for me, so I get out of the house as quickly as a gay guy with ADHD can, so, not that quickly. To keep consistent with the stereotype, I’m also unable to find the place, even though I have the accumulated knowledge of humankind in my front pocket. But I was lost until I saw a beautiful woman wearing a blue satin midi skirt and a leopard coat, followed by two hot guys in low-rise bootcut jeans. I was near my quirky styled mecca. After those clues, I find it easily.
Amongst the people filming TikToks (non-derogatory, I respect the hustle), Acne’s beautiful showroom is filled with their Fall/Winter 2026 menswear collection. Jonny Johansson is celebrating the brand’s thirtieth birthday. What an occasion, especially for a brand as eternally young as Acne. Thankfully, this isn’t a retrospective, instead a rebellious look at how a “grown-up” brand should be. Shirts are doubled, and polos are made skin-tight. Denim is always a standout. Printed, taped, flared, baggy: have your pick, it’s all delicious. Camero bags are everywhere. An XXL distressed suede version instantly became the weekender bag of my dreams.
This Camero bag in baby blue made me emotional.
On the way to my next show, I miss my stop on the metro because I’m busy watching Dior’s menswear livestream. As soon as I catch myself (two stops after), I make my way back, furiously typing stories: relating Jonathan Anderson’s genius of intertwining Hedi Slimane and Paul Poiret in a single look to my thousands of followers (well, two and a half thousand). Thankfully, this is a familiar venue that at least twice every season I make my way to: an empty gym of a school in the Rive Gauche.
Dior is telling us to buckle up!
I’m here for Walter Van Beirendonck’s show, which opens with a yellow-tarped motorcycle speeding down the runway. The Belgian designer’s collections always have a tinge of joy at their core, even when they’re politically meaningful. Here, the banana-coloured vehicle was just the beginning (literally). What followed was a procession of brightly hued references to war. Toy AK47s and grenade prints on knit vests were remarkable. Thankfully, I had time to mull it over – the venue is close enough to my empty flat that I can walk home after. For the rest of the night, despite the possibility of late-night plans, I stayed up writing and procrastinating writing until 4 am.
Of course, the next morning, I paid the price. It was a day of being late to everything. I was late to the Ouest presentation, which is unmissable on account of the clothes, of course, but also the boys. I’m partial to a moustache, and this season, rigid denim and white tank tops were the vehicle for a furry-lipped sausage fest. They had me extremely distracted because I was 20 minutes late to the Kartik Research show. Oh, how I ran. Oh, how sweaty I was only to wait another 10 minutes, stewing in my own juices, waiting for the show to start.
Gay Paree <3
Thankfully, I was sitting next to a dear friend, Serge, who showed me his schedule for the day, immediately making my struggle to reach two shows in one morning pathetic. The show was fabulous. There isn’t much Kartik Kumra can’t do. His way of adapting Indian craft into classically chic silhouettes is masterful. Got to go backstage thanks to the wonderful generosity of the best PR company, David Siwicki (shout out Gaby, shout out David!), and congratulate him personally.
My favourite Kartik Research look — this is what dreams are made of!
After, I met with a close friend, Oscar Ouyang, showing his collection in a showroom (unfortunately, it’s under embargo, so I can’t share it just yet), but thankfully, he was close to a Saint Laurent store, so I forced him to take a break to go for a coffee and look at sunglasses. It was a happy reunion from my (recently departed) home. And probably part of the reason I cried at the Dries Van Noten show hours later. But I’m getting ahead of myself. A Dries show is always an emotionally turbulent experience for me. Last season, I fell off a lime bike on the way, of course wearing shorts, and bled profusely down my leg for the whole show. This time I decided to play it safe and take the metro.
First of all, the chicest people in the world are at that show every season. I’m consistently gagged at the attendees' looks and demeanour. Being invited to a Dries show is aura maxxing to the max. To get to the venue, we climb cement stairs. “It’s not a Dries show without cement stairs,” someone says behind me, going up these consistently grey stairs to what’s usually one of the most colourful collections of the season.
A very Dries detail.
Back to me crying, for Fall/Winter 2026, Julian Klausner illustrates the act of growing up as a lonely one. Through mismatched knits and over- and undersized jackets, he relates a feeling I’m growing more and more familiar with, relying on your objects as symbols of the ones you love. I miss my family, I miss my friends, even through fashion week’s chaos. Besides the sob story, the clothes are also undeniably great. So much so that the following day, I need to go see them in person at the re-see. On the way out, in the claustrophobic chaos that is leaving a venue with stairs, I stand right next to Jack Harlow. Girls, I get it now.
After the Dries re-see, I go straight into the Dior one. I needed to see that collection in person. After so many stories posted about my love for it, there was no way I wasn’t going to go. I could talk about it for hours. The use of the maison’s cumulative visual knowledge, Jonathan Anderson’s silhouette work, Poiret volumes, the comment on modern luxury. It’s just brilliant. After it, I grossly miscalculate how much time I have until my next show – are we sensing a pattern? I barely make it to the Ernest Baker show, which is taking place on a fancy boat. But I couldn't miss it for the world. It’s their Paris fashion week debut, and I’m a huge fan, both of the brand and the two designers behind it. It’s not just that one of them is Portuguese and they’re based in Portugal (the motherland), it’s that they consistently present some of the most fabulous clothes, no matter where they’re making them.
Not pictured: holding in my tears of joy at the Dior re-see.
The next morning is so sunny, and the birds are chirping so hard that I choose to walk to Kiko Kostadinov’s show. Held in the same empty gym as Walter Van Beirendonck, here, the void isn’t a conduit for a yellow motorcycle, but rather a metaphor for the show. Dedicated to unpacking the meaning of clothes through their most basic element, construction, the designer tells a story of organic growth, how structures evolve through repetition. Originally, I planned to go backstage (again, another proof of Gaby’s love language), but I decided against it because, for some reason, it only hit me on the last day that I could choose not to be late. Especially not for Celine. When I get to the brand’s headquarters, I’m stunned. The collection is staged like statues of everyday wear, realistic outfits hanging perfectly, as if assembled the night before a big day. Small details are huge. A tie that hangs past a belt. A notebook tied to a leather coat. A small pin on a lapel. Unlike so many other designers this season, Michael Rider isn’t creating clothes that emulate wear; he designs them, so we dream of doing that ourselves.
This colour combo gagged me.
Now, menswear week might’ve been officially over, but it only truly ends after Anthony Vaccarello’s routine surprise, choosing to show Saint Laurent men’s collections in the middle of couture week. I’m, of course, waiting with bated breath for the livestream. It’s not an extreme measure; Saint Laurent shows are to me what going to church on Sunday is to my grandma: a religious experience. This season, Vaccarello proves why once again. Inspired by James Baldwin’s Giovanni’s Room, he presents a collection that is queer, masculine and intellectual. And, while I could write three pages worth of praise, I already did (check my official review of the show to read me geeking out over it).
Vintage Saint Laurent shoes > having furniture to sit on.
This season, I have the privilege of going to the re-see. Thank god! I get to put my nose to the details, to get the touch and feel of real. Because of it, I understood that the glossy over-the-knee boots are really mules with leggings attached. The only downside to going to Saint Laurent HQ is the inevitable ego check. Everyone is dressed better than you. I had the gall to wear brown shoes with an all-black outfit – the horror! Inspired by my lack of tact, as soon as I leave the shiny gates of heaven, I begin a furious search for YSL vintage black shoes. I will not commit the same mistake twice. Thankfully, I found an eel leather pair with a very similar shape to the new season ones. Now, do I have any furniture besides a bed in my apartment? No. But this feels like a priority. No couch, but wearing YSL shoes: Paris gets me.
See ya next season!
Words and images by Pedro Vasconcelos
