A few months ago I won a competition called Transform HK promising to give a “full body, mind and soul transformation.” Brushing aside the fear that it was some sort of cult, I signed up to eight weeks of life coaching, boot camp, style and image consulting. The new me would be thin(ner), more stylish, and impeccably well coached in all things relating to life.
The apotheosis of my transformation would be a fabulous (their word) REVEAL party to be held at a location so secret that if I told you, your brain would explode... OK, it was Solas.
I ordered a slim fitting suit and got dressed to the nines for the event. My female transformed counterpart, English school teacher, Polly, would be there as well, and—in my imagination—we would walk out and everyone would be in awe of us, peasants would kiss the ground we walked upon, and most importantly I would get free vodka Red Bulls.
The day came and I showed up. I followed the style advice consulting group Immaginaire had provided, which consisted of what colors I look good in, and why a ripped jacket with a mustard stain was not appropriate (even though mustard goes well with my eyes). I had lost 15 pounds in bootcamp and I felt like a million bucks.
Despite the torrential summer rain, there was a decent crowd there. The plan was to show a video of our progress, we’d get some pictures taken and receive a gift certificate (score!). My name was called. I went up
Nightlife Hijacks
STFU. WHAT stage? I was expecting half a catwalk. I mean, when Propaganda holds their Halloween costume contests, at least they take their fucking runway out.