I thought fashholes were—like unicorns and people who get paid to blog full-time—a myth. This morning, however, as the bleary-eyed crowds rolled into the 9am Malan Breton show, I took my seat and asked the harmless-looking redhead next to me if she recognized the man in the front row who was being interviewed. She gave me a look that implied I had just asked her to behead her firstborn, and then turned and made a face at her friend, who cackled loudly at my obvious Fashion Week ineptitude.

You’re at Malan Breton, for crissakes! Fashhole.

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