Being the highly ethical journalist I am, I normally steer clear of children. Mostly because they invariably ask if I'm The Sartorialist or Someone Halfway Famous -- the disappointment that registers on their dewy faces when I hand them my card and explain that I am absolutely the shit amongst my 16 followers is, well, insupportable. At least adults don't throw the card out until they come to a trash receptacle, and some I like to think, recycle it.
Anyway
Though it looks like she just discovered I'm not Scott Schuman, this might just be the pensive expression that all young models sport when they're in NYC for fashion week with their mums and must settle for a Shirley Temple at the Thompson rooftop lounge. I'm going to hold onto this photo and when she makes the cover of Vogue, I'll be like, dang.
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