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Kristin Cavallari Hosted Fashion Week’s Worst Party

After a week of crowded parties and highbrow events, my final night of New York Fashion Week was spent at Kristin Cavallari’s Chinese Laundry shoe launch. It was a terrible experience, unlike any other of the past seven nights.

All photos by the author

Earlier this week I received the following email from a friend of mine:

“Excited to see you and hear a bit about your fabulous Fashion Week life!”

Don’t get me wrong, covering Fashion Week is both fascinating and intoxicating in its own individual way—but I went on to explain to my friend that not every part of Fashion Week can be described as fabulous. I’m sure every fashion editor can attest to this. The reality of it all is, at times, more or less colorful chaos and herds of amateur streetstyle photographers. After a week of crowded parties and highbrow events, my final night of New York Fashion Week was spent at Kristin Cavallari’s Chinese Laundry shoe launch. It was a terrible experience, unlike any other of the past seven nights.


Kristin Cavallari creating a lucrative personal brand for herself like this—or attempting to—shouldn’t come as a surprise. Lauren Conrad, fellow Laguna Beach star and Allure’s Basic Bitch of 2014, has created her own incredibly successful fashion and beauty empire since leaving the hit television series The Hills and Laguna Beach. Kristin’s legacy will be shoes and preaching her controversial anti-vaccination stance.

Before we go any further, let me say that not all Fashion Week events are created equal. This is obvious. The day of, VICE received the confirmed invitation along with the official press release.

“Kristin Cavallari has created a collection that combines the glamour and style of today’s celebrity while nodding at the current economic climate. Styles range from classic ballet flats with modern studs to peek-a-boo mesh platform heels that work the red carpet as well as designer jeans!”

OK, typical PR talk, whatever—I continue reading. "Confirmed talent includes Carol Minaj (Nicki Maraj's Mom), Noelle Reno (Fashion Correspondent/Bravo Ladies of London), Sean Lowe (The Bachelor),"among a slew of other pseudo-celebrities. In that moment I decided to make it my personal goal to take a selfie with Nicki Minaj’s mother.

A few hours later, the time had come. Even though I was beginning to feel the wear and tear of Fashion Week, as someone who watched Laguna Beach religiously growing up I looked forward to my promised five-to-seven-minute time slot with Kristin. I walked into the hotel and immediately checked in with the events team organizing the event.


“Excuse me, where is the press check-in?”

“Um, I’m not sure…”

After a few minutes of uncertainty, I was shooed into the press corner, which consisted of me and three staffers from the Daily Quirk—"your daily dose of quirky goodness." Sitting on the ground of a midtown hotel and painfully bored, I listened to them gossip about beef they had with a similar publication I'd never heard of. As I put my head in my hands a woman came up to me. She did not mess around. She informed me that my promised five-minute time slot was cut to two minutes, if that. It became clear to me that I wasn't worthy.

As the red carpet was about to start, the press area tripled. There were now 12 or so photographers and videographers waiting for Kristin Cavallari to come down from her hotel room. In the meantime, two waify models stepped onto the carpet wearing Kristin’s designs and over-posed for the photographers. A few moments later, Kristin appeared. No one was taking pictures.

“WHO IS THAT? IS THAT KRISTIN? THAT’S NOT KRISTIN” shouted the obnoxious photographer to the right of me.

“That is Kristin,” I confirmed, like some sort of Laguna Beach prophet.

Kristin exited the red carpet, as did I. I headed over to my not-so-trusty event coordinator, who told me what I had been suspecting all along: I would not be meeting Kristin Cavallari. As we continueed talking it was unclear whether I was even allowed in the party, which I told her would defeat the purpose of this entire story. We made a deal that I would stay unless someone saw me and told me to leave. This was clearly a recipe for excellent press, right? Right. Sure, why not.


I was visibly annoyed and decided I needed a drink—ASAP. I walked to the open bar, which offered an assortment of wine, beer, and fruity beverages. I felt overwhelmed by the options and awkwardly mumbled that I wanted “the coconut one” to the bartender—"the coconut one” being Coconut and Peach Moscato by Myx Fusions/Nicki Minaj. I took a sip, and it tasted like a shitty Fuzzy Navel Seagrams Wine Cooler that I drank during the Laguna Beach days, except it was disguised in a sleek blue bottle. I felt disgusted and nostalgic simultaneously, which was strangely fitting for the evening ahead of me. I wastefully placed the drink back on the bar.

I strolled past empty reserved tables with bottle service and looked around at the crowd surrounding me—which was made up of a sea of bodycon dresses, floral headpieces, and fedoras. This was not your typical fashion crowd. As I began to wonder if Kristin’s team had just invited Twitter fans to the event, I unexpectedly ran into a non-bodycon-wearing friend of mine who is a reputable fashion editor. We both agreed the ladies were dressed as carbon copies of both The Hills and The City. “WHERE AM I? What is going on” was the general consensus.

Truth be told, the shoes weren't that bad. They weren't that good either. Kristin offers an assortment of colorful prints to go along with her strappy stilettos. For the sake of the party, the shoes were put behind glass like precious pieces of irreplaceable art. I personally wouldn’t wear them myself, but I can imagine there is a very clear customer in mind: everyone at this party. Attendees described them as “really versatile,” “there's something for everybody,” “really cool,” and “they look comfortable.”


At this point, Kristin, who stood flanked by her shoe collection, was conducting interviews with the Daily Quirk and other outlets. I watched from afar. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Perez Hilton talking to one of these outlets. I waited for the opportunity to ask for a photograph when a fedora-wearing blogger interjected for a selfie. Afterward, Perez descended into the VIP area. As you might have guessed by now, I was most definitely not invited.

I decided to mingle. It was a party, after all. I struck up a conversation with a friendly man who earlier had told me he basically had the same shirt as me, a drapey floral blouse that looked like it should be a window curtain. My new friends, Mia Weber and Erik Bliss, are employees of New York Family Magazine. “Kristin’s a mom, that’s of interest to us—interesting moms in show business doing stuff,” Mia explained. Both Mia and Erik approved of Kristin’s shoe line. Though they both set the bar low for expectations, Mia described them as “actually pretty cute.” Erik chimed in: “UM, why do they not make them in size 12 for men? Because HELLO!” I decided to take the conversation to a dark place: Kristin’s anti-vaccination stance. Considering their employers, they politely declined on commenting. I made a personal note to self: File vaccinations along with politics and religion as things you should absolutely not talk about at parties.


I parted ways with my new friends and peered into the crowd. A woman and her male companion tapped me on the shoulder.

“Who is that? She’s in the VIP, and I have no idea who it is. Do you have any idea?”

I told her I have literally no idea who anyone was here, aside from Nicki Minaj’s mom, who like some majestic unicorn I had yet to actually see. I took a photograph of this woman and asked her for her first and last name. She looked surprised that I was asking her for her name, stayed mute, and pointed to someone who looked like her assistant but was actually her publicist. The PR representitive handed me a card. “Brandsway Cr#ative: Scarlett Stack, social media and creative strategist.”

I shook my head. A few hours into the party, this was my cue to make my exit. Walking down the hotel steps past a line of girls who were dressed like the rest of the crowd inside, I felt like I was riding off into the sunset that was the end of my work week. Then, reality sank in: I was at Port Authority Bus Terminal, I did not get to meet Nicki Minaj’s mom, and I spent the night being treated like the dirt Kristin Cavallari walks on in her snake-print stilettos—confirming that this was the worst Fashion Week event I had attended all week. Thanks for the terrible time.