Lolituche - Printed Metallic Red
Pump heel 7 cm
THE TRUE STORY OF THE LOLITUCHE
It all started when I was 14, listening to The Smiths and then a bit of Metallica from the back of my bedroom, throwing myself against the walls to satisfy my need for contact.
A time when my parents separated. It lasted two years.
This allowed me to pull a little on the outings, as both of them were a little depressed, driven by their vague à l'âme. I could have it both ways, asking one what the other didn't want, while telling the other that he'd accepted it to sway the balance in my favor. All the time.
I'd take advantage of this to go and hang out on all the flagstones around Montparnasse.
There, I'd get together with my friends. Not my friends from the private school my parents had enrolled me in. I couldn't stand the teachers or the students, let alone their parents. But I didn't want to make any waves academically, so I just sat back and watched the end of the cycle, people flocking to private classes to escape the changing face of France.
So here I was, zoning out, forgetting my family worries and hanging out at the foot of the Tour Montparnasse. It was the beginning of hip-hop in France, and that's all I listened to. RUN-DMC, the Beastie Boys, LL Cool J. My mother gave me a Kangol and I only wore baggys pants. Our weekends alternated between taming our skateboards, dancing (as much as we could), and doing some clumsy graffiti in old factories or abandoned warehouses.
All our wanderings were also accompanied by the discovery of a sweet resin. Although its use later became somewhat problematic for me, the first moments were a discovery of sensations of mad freedom.
No matter how discomfited I looked when I returned home, my eyes popping out of my head, my parents paid no attention to my condition, since only theirs prevailed. This gentle "feast" lasted as long as they were apart. When they got back together, I found it sad because it was a patch-up of reasons. And those reasons were primarily economic.
If that was growing up, I'd rather stay a teenager for life, with my friends, who were all about having fun, even if it meant flirting with danger and getting mixed up with anything illegal. It was in the middle of this gang, in the middle of my sixteenth year, that Lolo appeared with his big, clean-cut lock.
I'm not going to lie, he stood out among my pals who looked like they'd just stepped out of the Night Warriors.
He had arrived through a girl who was dating one of his buddies. We were in the middle of the Gulf War, led by Babush padre, and I was in a relationship with a guy a little older than me, called the Cat. He made me laugh, and more importantly, he fed me a weed he'd grown on his parents' balcony. Despite this undeniable advantage, I now only had eyes for this new arrival, who was as white-bread as he was kawaii.
He courted me like a peacock, and with each new encounter, he adorned himself with a new jacket, as the animal would have done its wheel. It was either a Schott down jacket, a Chevignon teddy or a perfecto.
The guy wanted to show me he had money, thinking it would make me dizzy. But I didn't give a damn about his money. I even shunned it, and that's what turned me off about him. What appealed to me most was his natural beauty. He looked like a character out of Rohmer, with his long Greek nose and his uninterrupted ranting to mask his discomfort at being totally captivated by me. I could see he was rowing, but I couldn't make the first move. It was up to the boy to take the plunge. Cinema and literature had taken enough of the male impulse from us that I felt I didn't have to do anything.
Finally, one day he decided to take action and invited me to the cinema to see Happiness.
Directed by Todd Solondz and produced by the wonderful Christine Vachon. That's when the seats started to rattle. It has to be said that the film is uncomfortable. That's its talent, its appeal. I could feel that Lolo was trying to make some moves that he aborted in the final moments. Tired of his lack of daring, I decided to give him a hand.
The rest is history now. We've worked together, climbed mountains, go down other ones on their asses, but we're at the helm. So it's easy to understand why, when I first saw this delicious model, I had to name it after my amusing companion.
But why did I add the suffix Tuche to his diminutive name?
Because after that famous movie, Lolo thought the deal was in the bag, so he invited me to his parents' house. New rich people living in a luxurious penthouse in Boulogne. Despite their opulence, I could sense a certain decadence in their ways. As if they'd reached these heights a little too quickly, without getting rid of their proletarian habits (a reference to the French film "les Tuche"). That's why I had to pay tribute to my in-laws and especially to their best representative, my beloved Lolo. My Lolituche.
