Cinderella,

There was a reason why I would have liked to scratch the shiny layer of my fellow magazine colleagues from Elle and Quote out of jealousy (metaphorically speaking, of course, all very lovely women); the fact that they resided with their office at the Koningsplein in Amsterdam while we were in Hoofddorp. Aside from the bustling city around you, nice lunch spots within Louboutin-proof distance, it was mainly the fact that they walked past Shoebaloo at least twice a day. Shoebaloo, the mecca of every fashionista. The best of the best, the finest of the finest. And oh how the oxytocin flowed when we received the invitation for the exclusive pre-sale. The golden wrapper of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory was nothing compared to it. Almost soaring with happiness, we left the store with fresh goods from Marni, Prada, or Chloé.

I remember my friend M who dragged home not one, not two, but three bags. She countered her boyfriend's remark ‘I didn't know you needed a bag’ with the hard-hitting sale argument. ‘These were half price.’ ‘How much did they cost then,’ he wanted to know. ‘900 euros,’ she had said a bit embarrassed while gently placing her hand on her credit card for comfort. Her boyfriend was silent for a moment. ‘So now for 450 euros,’ he calculated, and she let him stay in his delusion, because she had of course communicated the discounted amount. That's just how we are.

When Amayzine turned two, we celebrated it grandly and exuberantly. I had the privilege of being a jury member for Holland’s Next Top Model, and we had actually produced a print issue. For the festive evening, I had been able to borrow an incredibly cool outfit from Gucci in Milan. Only the boots were runway pieces, made for a model and not for me. The shoes too big, the shaft far too narrow. I parked them in the closet and headed to the P.C. Hooftstraat because Gucci calls for Gucci. I saw a beautiful burgundy pair that perfectly matched the dress and had the ideal heel for an evening like this. ‘You know what, I’ll keep them on,’ I said to the saleswoman. I was going to go straight to the makeup artists from MAC in the Leidsestraat, slide into my dress there, and then take a taxi to the party venue. I hadn't even closed the door of the boutique when the strap of the shoe snapped loose. And they had no other pair. No matter how much I excel in Plan B's, I didn't know what to do now. Or did I? Shoebaloo. I had seen a stunning set of Gucci shoes there recently. Totally Carrie Bradshaw in green fabric with a G made of rhinestones. Tonight called for exuberance.

A solution was found, but I had no time. So I called the store manager and told him my problem. ‘May, drive by our boutique in the P.C. with your taxi later. I’ll run outside and throw two options in your size inside to you.’ And so it happened. That evening, I stood in and on Gucci on stage and welcomed Martin and Vittoria, the golden duo from Shoebaloo. They thanked me for the lovely evening, gave me a hug, and whispered in my ear: ’The shoes are for you. A gift from us.‘

I have rarely been closer to Cinderella than then.

I thank Shoebaloo for serving luxury and glamour. You are missed.