Akira

I held my breath as I crept through the door, looking around for a Style Authority to chase me out with a look of icy disdain. Nobody. Hmm. I crept in a little closer, taking in the distressed wood surfaces, the minimalist racks.
Aah, staffer is on the phone in the next room. I might have a moment then. Oh my. Akira Isogawa designs and superlatives are hardly strangers, but to see them up close is quite the experience. Don’t misunderstand me, I consider Fashion TV a form of penetential torture to be endured while getting my hair cut, I don’t think I’ve ever bought a Vogue, and couldn’t care diddly about what the latest skirt length is this season. But beauty earns its own respect.
The lady even flashed me a smile as I inched my way into the far room, growing bolder by the moment, but she didn’t get off the phone, which was a blessing. I got to run my (very clean, honestly) fingers over the silk, and imagine what these cloudlike suggestions of clothing must feel like to wear. Some were on sale, but no, there’s no way I can afford them. But thanks for not running me out, scissors slashing and hurling pins at vital acupuncture points.
I feel like this should be categorised as ‘Art Gallery’, for which I should have left a gold coin donation in gratitude as I slunk away, silkily serene.