Having been a 'petite person' for most of my life, 1m57cm to be exact. I have learned to adapt, by putting on heels from the age of 12 and introducing a voluminous hairdo that gives the illusion of winning some height. But when living in the big city, footwear becomes even more important than before. Not only because the competion is high, fashionista's in Paris are on a firstname base with their footwear. They talk Manolo, Jimmy and Christian - streading on Avenue Montaigne as if those modern works of footart are part of their body.
But me, heel walker extr-ordinaire, I am feeling more and more attracted to UGGS. Walking around Paris, taking the metro, bumping into an arrogant Parisian who starts name-calling you, doesn't invite me to do a Carrie Bradshaw around the city.
That minute of hesitation: 'shall I go for comfort or glamour' only lasts for 5 seconds though. When I think about my personal relationship with my heels, I feel an instant shame. They are too beautiful, too perfect, too wonderfull, too old hollywood glamour... to say NO to. The hesitation has turned me into to the woman and her shoes.
The woman and her shoes, although it might just sound like a regular sentence, there is a higher meaning to it. No man, nor comfort can come in between a woman and the wonderfull things shoes can do to her confidence, mood, state of mind and silhouette. So that moment when a woman stands in front of her closet full of shoes - hesitating which wonder can join her for a night out on the town - she is in another world, the world of Blahnik, Choo and Louboutin, a world of jetset and pure glamour. And although cabfair has gone skyrocking since my arrival into the city of lights. Nothing and I really do mean nothing is more larger than life than living it on stiletto's.
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