Lagerfeld, who was dressed in a tight Dior suit of broad gray and blue stripes, and a pair of aviator sunglasses, disdains this practice. “I don’t think I’m too good for what I’m doing,” he says. His starched shirt had a four-inch-high collar that fit snugly under his chin, and his hair—whitened with a gesso-like dry shampoo—was pulled into a ponytail. His large belt buckle was encrusted with diamonds; his tie, looped with silver chains, was fixed with a jade Cartier clasp from the nineteen-twenties. He was wearing fingerless black biker gloves that bore silver grommets, etched with the Chanel logo, on each knuckle and were equipped, at the wrists, with small zippers that carried faintly S & M overtones. “Très chic, non?” he said, holding up a hand to be admired.

From:
Colapinto, John. “In the Now: Where Karl Lagerfeld lives”. The New Yorker, March 19, 2007