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| What my granddad thinks I do. Not the case. |
excerpt from an article I wrote that I thought was a little bit hi-rar-ious:
[A week before NYFW started I got the chance to go home to New Zealand. I was sitting in my grandfathers house, on the top of a hill amongst dense bush, looking around the room of his two story log cabin villa. To your left there are pig head trophies, stuffed feasants, and other obscure taxidermied animals. At my feet there are little dogs running around, erratically jumping up and down, occasionally doing inappropriate things to my leg. And to my right sits my granddad in unwashed denim jeans, a maroon polo top (that's probably a bit small), and a haircut that looks like it was done with sheep shearing scissors. I don't think it was my granddad's awesome haircut that got me to where I am, but perhaps his carefree attitude was part of it. Fast forward a week and I'm at Lincoln Center, the venue for Mercedes Benz Fashion Week in New York City. And my grandad? well he's probably shooting pigs somewhere or watching rugby.]
Hands down one of the funniest guys I know. Love him to bits.
Morgs
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