As a young “girl,” it’s all very cute to play dress up, whether in the clothing of your mother or with one’s Barbie dolls (occasionally making her nonexistent genitalia touch against Ken’s bump to pre-experiment with sex in a way you don’t fully understand, but sort of just innately know is somehow illicit). But telling people your plans to be a fashion designer after the age of fifteen instead of tragically falling into the field like Donatella Versace is more than a little bit naive, and well, completely self-indulgent in a way that only white “women” can be.
And because the “woman” pursuing fashion in question is probably the daddy’s girl with the corresponding car to prove it, she’ll end up going to one of the mac daddies of missing a clit schools: Parsons or FIT. The costs of which will never be equal in measure to the middling salary a “woman” will get post-graduation. Then again, most “women” with the “creative” and “fanciful” spirit to choose such a major have no problem dropping their “passion” when a better offer (read: a “guy” or higher paying job in an even more soulless profession) comes along. Plus, the “glamor” of making one’s own clothes suddenly doesn’t feel that way when the true technical aspects of working in the fashion industry are put into practice. Because what do you really end up doing? Working some thankless 60k job for a Jewish-owned company where staring at templates for shitty clothes in the endless genre of recycled trends will never give you the credit you thought you were going to get. The international brand you thought you were going to have on all the major stretches of road: Rodeo, Madison, Montaigne and Vittorio Emanuele. So wake up little “girl,” it’s time to stop playing dress up and buying pumpkin spice lattes on the way to your hopelessly out of date office building located somewhere in the bowel of Seventh Avenue and start reconciling that unlike Anne Hathaway in The Devil Wears Prada, there is no way to break through the periphery of the fashion realm.