A Morning With Olivier Rousteing, Balmain's Creative Wunderkind

Apr 11, 2014

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By now, we all know that I'm basically best friends with a bunch of designers and street style stars. People always ask me if it's surreal to wrap presents with Nick Wooster, or eat chocolate chip cookies with Rick Owens, or hug Yeezy. And I always respond the same way: I don't see them as designers or street style gawds. I just see them as people, nah mean? Anyways, the other day my boy Olivier Rousteing, Balmain's Creative Director, invited me over to his office to check out his digs and just generally kick it. This is how my morning went...

1. olivier1

2. 1o

9:30am

9:30 seemed kind of early for a fashion house like Balmain, but Phoebe, the Swiss-born, French-raised secretary, made it pretty clear that Olivier is an early riser. Also, they have more important people scheduled later in the day and Olivier likes to get the no-names done with first thing in the morning.

I show up and I realize I have no idea how to pronounce homie's last name. Do I call him Mr. Rousteing? He's like 28-years-old. I'm older than him, so shouldn't he call me Mr. Moy? But he's the Creative Director AND Designer at Balmain. Wait, I'm older than Drake too. And pretty much every other relevant rapper and shit. FUCK. I'm about to have an existential breakdown about the years I've wasted in front of Olivier Rouseing's dope ass mantle. Just as I'm about to justify the "time off" I needed after college to myself, Olivier walks in.

3. 2o

9:40am

He glides in, apologizes as his phone rings and introduces himself.

“Hi. Olivier.”

“Nice to meet you, Olivier. I'm Jon.”

Except I say Olivier not in the cool European way, but more like if Yung Joc was saying it in the hook of one of his songs. So it sounds like I just called him "Oliveee—AYYYYE."

He mouths "sorry" and picks up the ringing phone. I can't hear the other side, but Olivier is not amused. Something about a lost courier. The last thing he says is, "Well tell those basic bitches at Holt Renfrew to lean in and do their fucking jobs." Olivier is kind of a beast out here.

4. 3o

10:15am

Obviously, when you're hanging out with the Creative Director and Designer of Balmain, you wear your most OD alphet. Mine consists of a lot of layers and competing hemlines. It's not really that chic or slim and Olivier is not into it. He's like, "I get it, but it does nothing for your figure. You need to cut back. You need a nice blazer and a v-neck. Oh yeah, and some leather trousers."

I tell him that I can't really pull of that look like he can. "Just eat this Special K bar and some OJ and you're good for meals this week," he goes, giving me his secret, patented diet advice. At first I'm offended, but then I look at his cheekbones and excuse myself real quick to go make myself throw up the Parisian McGriddle I ate before coming over.

5. 4o

10:20am

I notice that Olivier has some Miami Vice DVD sets and he kindly sets up this shot with a pair of shoes. It's kind of weird he insists I pop a 'Gram of it, but whatever. He then asks to see the shot and begins to peruse my Instagram feed and he looks truly perplexed. He looks up at me, utterly confused, and asks, "Do you have different filters or something?" And that’s when I realize Olivier has only ever taken photos of really attractive people and things. Like, he's never not taking a group selfie where his face is smashed between really skinny, tall girls of all sorts of ethnicities. Olivier can't wrap his head around the fact that this is how regular people look like on Instagram. "Why even have an Instagram then?" he asks. And, to be honest, I don't even have an answer for him. I outwardly appear to smile nervously, but inside I'm shaking my fucking head at God.

6. 5o

10:35am

Olivier doesn't tell me I have to leave, but I'm getting the hint. He’s been sitting exactly like this for the last 10 minutes without saying a word. And Phoebe has been not-so-quietly sighing and muttering things in French, while she stalks the office in high heels. She smiles at me and it's singlehandedly the meanest and sexiest thing I've ever seen in my entire life. I literally have a fear boner thanks to this chick. Olivier, thankfully, is unaware of my fear boner and rises, formally bidding me adieu. Of course, now that we're best friends and share Special K bars, we do that European double kiss thing. Naturally, I completely fucking brick it because I'm distracted by his cheekbones once again and instead just end up kind of resting my cheeks against his. He pulls back abruptly and his cheek literally cuts mine. That's how sharp his cheekbones are. He sucks at his teeth and motions for Phoebe, who puts a quilted leather band aid with a bunch of zippers on my cut. He smiles, grabs my face with both hands and says, "Now you look like Nelly, my dear." I exit, my fear boner still fully engorged. What a morning.

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