Fashion Week; Paris
Lucille had worked long and hard to become a designer. She’d learned to sew when she was seven, on her grandmothers old sewing machine, and had gotten her own the Christmas she turned 12, which had been an exciting thing.
She sewed her own shirts and dresses, and even went to the effort to make her own prom dresses.
Senior prom took nearly four months and a lot of patience. Chiffon wasn’t the easiest material for her. In the long run, her dress wound up with a flowing peach colored chiffon skirt and a bodice of lace that sported her first successful attempt at adding boning and some extra shaping to a dress. It’d been successful, and became one of the highlights of her portfolio.
She’d started off interning after college, and had gone from there, working until she’d finally been able to branch out, starting her own line. Love, Lucy. It was doing quite well, too.
Love, Lucy put out a mixture of vintage, rockabilly, and high fashion, all pieces that mixed together well and really flowed. She had a fluid project in the works, but for fashion week, she’d put out her Bombshell line. Her’s wouldn’t walk for some time, so she had some time to sit in the audience and watch and enjoy.
She sat in the front row with a few other designers, one slim leg crossed over the other. She had on a pair of her own Bombshell pants. They were black and low rise, and clung to her legs like a second skin. She had paired it with a white blouse from one of her earlier collections that she adored and kept in every single collection, though always with some sort of update to keep it trendy. This version had peasant sleeves that were hidden in her black blazer. The whole outfit pulled together like a suit with the pointy toed nude heels she wore that had ruby red holographic glitter on the sole. She kept running a hand through her short hair, though it never seemed to move from how it was perfectly pulled and styled off to one side, almost dipping off her face perfectly.