I was struck with a revelation while drying my hair this morning. I steadfastly work my way through the New Yorker
each morning because my cheveux
is like a towel, which quickly and securely absorbs water and refuses to let go unless prodded by the hottest of hair dryers. So I spend quite a bit of time bent over the sink, learning about the latest environmental crisis or Russian author. But this morning, it was a delightful article about Karl Lagerfeld
, the skinny, be-gloved, media-consumptive patriarch of Chanel. And so, you may begin your novel:
"Christian Lagerfeld, his father, made a fortune in condensed milk; his mother, Elisabeth, played the violin."
If the story doesn't end with a death, a sexual violation, or a creepy visit to to the pastures of Switzerland, you're not thinking hard enough.