Tomorrow, I’m reading at extreme cashmere as part of a series called soft spot. It’s private, but DM me or, if you know me, text me for list.
And please keep sending me questions, about anything at all.
One of the first things I did in Paris was book a two hour facial at Biologique Recherche, which is more affordable at the flagship in Champs-Élysées than in New York, and which, after getting sandblasted by the Med, I needed. Lars, who happens to be a skincare aficionado, suggested it over lunch before a real societal reentry. We pulled up the website’s reservation calendar and serendipitously found only one slot open, at 11 the next morning.
I intended to peruse the museums in the area before then, but it was a Monday, when everything is closed (except for an atrocious Leandro Erlich exhibition at the Grand Palais, which I regretfully walked through, just to get some AC). Then, my skin was caressed until it resembled that of the dolphins I’d just seen in the wild, and a mirror was held up to my gleaming, rested face. Everything smells fetid but that’s because it’s not masked by harsh fragrance, they say. I bought basically everything that was used on me, at a better deal there than online:
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