Fashion

KIKI PANICKED IN THE CHANEL STORE IN PARIS

There I stood. I knew damn well that I shouldn't step into that store at all, but I did anyway. The feeling was stronger than me. After half an hour of gasping and checking my account three times to see if I was really not richer than I secretly thought, I decided it was smarter to discreetly make my way back to the exit.

And then I saw a pair of sunglasses. That I couldn't live without. “Help, run away while you still can,” went through my mind. In a flash, I made my way to the rack of sunglasses and then spent three quarters of an hour trying them on. Shit.

And what is the absolute dumbest thing you can do when you are in the Chanel boutique ? Bring along two fashion-loving women. “Look, it looks ab-so-lutely amazing on you, très bien. You should definitely get it. You will absolutely not regret it. Think of it as an investment.” I feel little beads of sweat forming at the thought that I am really going to spend hundreds of euros on a pair of glasses. Correction: a SUNglass. That you only wear when the SUN is shining. Which averages about 9 days a year in our miserable kale country. What on earth is wrong with me?

“And before you know it, there’s an extremely helpful, chic saleswoman next to you treating you like a princess”

Well, that was the little devil on my shoulder, but in my ear, I hear two angels saying that this is the perfécte souvenir to take home, especially for my very first time in Paris. I know very well that I should be ashamed of that last part. Anyway, you start coming up with all sorts of justifications in your head about why you should/want/deserve/are going to buy these glasses and before you know it, there’s an extremely helpful, chic saleswoman next to you treating you like a princess. I take another look at the glasses. A dark green frame with ombre lens transition and two super chic Chanel pearls on the side. Before I know it, the glasses case is brought out and due to the whole experience, I can't think straight and walk like a drugged zombie child to the cash register to painfully slide my card through. It was three spare ribs out of my body, but believe me: once you’re outside with the black bag with the famous white rose, you can take on the world.

Coco will be proud of me. And May too.

By the way, curious about my entire Paris trip (further without absurd expenses, I promise)? Just click here.