They not only to leave their homes for four weeks, sit chair twice a year in distant cities of tiny, they also had to endure gilded see the world's most young, slim and the most beautiful girl in the most beautiful clothes, transparent, ideal inspection inches their noses.
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Vogue trio: (left to right) Carine Roitfeld (France), Anna Wintour (U.S), and Harriet Quick (UK)It's enough to make the most confident adult women go mountain climbing, wish she live in an extreme islamic countries.
If this is not depressive, these women are not enough (14 years old, the height of 6 feet) must be considered in the latest and most expensive, blood flow - constricting - (usually is designed, the designers of the men that we are old, relaxation, hampered).
For this magazine wearing parts is what the euro is expert knowledge of finance minister.
This is not only because they represent in the glare of the world's media, also can let the fear of the soul.
Who can wear the most vertiginous blister, forming - shoes? Who can rush, finally steel - grey Prada balloon coat? Who is young enough to pay enough) wear those metal Balenciaga jodhpurs?
Does time, delivery or erosion, these women under great pressure, and effortlessly, fashion.
At the same time, as we shall see, some of them put it off, and others.
The most influential in the fashion of women in New York is the record of the garment, low temperature lasting wear a 90 400 - ply wool from new winter clothing charcoal.
I've been new sports Jil Sander cashmere coats, although it is very hot, my darling, I nearly fainted. (high fashion is not practical.
After all, none of the editors ever walks anywhere, or uses the subway; not because they fear being stabbed, but simply because their shoes are so uncomfy.)
Nothing strikes fear into the heart of a British fashion magazine editor so much as being placed across the runway from their fearsomely groomed U.S. counterparts.
It is as if Rag, Tag and Bobtail had been pitted against the winning contestants from America's Next Top Model.
As I stumbled along the front row at the Vera Wang show on Friday, finding out what all these women were wearing, I couldn't help but notice all the over-confident, French-manicured, over-aerobicised blondes on the American front line as opposed to the rather shambolic, bedhead-haired Brits opposite, and I wondered how on earth we ever had an Empire.
Although part of me is by American editor, left deep impression to the person, and some bananas and Numbers to wear on their style of nifty.
They are so polishing, moist and black, they must spend most of life in the gym, beauty salon.
For a woman to marry, a mother at work, and the past 30, you might think: they are mad? Who in the name of god may be upset?
Well, Anna wintour, end up working for one.
Although I admire the editor - in fact, strong American fashion that their personal style - ablaze Bob (professional perm, her tennis lessons every morning, full, chanel in her skirt fold the waist, downy cardi and pointy shoes - stick to it, the cat in winter and summer, she just increase (winter grey wool tights), I have to say, I think she looks very boring.
For a woman with the best in the world and the latest design well, no reason was trapped in a rut, I am afraid of her style.
Like many magazine editor - such as in the Italian fashion Sozzani tong has made her golden hair and black expanse of clothes, look for decades, ingrid Sischy magazine or those who wear a tracksuit and trainers, seems not wash her hair, not to mention its professional blow - there're - style is the choice of the ways of leave Microsoft Wintour, become fashionable somehow, above, I think this is sure as hell in the morning to more easily.
But I prefer the more relaxed, esoteric approach of the British editors.
Take Alexandra Shulman, of British Vogue, who favours sexy pencil skirts, heels, cardigans and a big fat novel (catwalk shows are always up to an hour late kicking off).
Or Lucinda Chambers, her fashion editor, who has Bohemian dressing down to an art, complete with mad, Virginia Woolf hair.
I like the fact the Brits aren't ashamed of mixing High Street with high end, viz Harriet Quick of Vogue, who in New York at the weekend was proudly sporting a Chanel blouse above a dirt-cheap pair of Gap jodhpurs and wasn't ashamed to shout it from the rooftops.
Or the very-willing-to-experiment Hilary Alexander of the Daily Telegraph, who revealed she was wearing an M&S top, Topshop trousers and a belt she had owned for a dozen years.
I love, too, the style of Sophia Neophitou-Apostolou, editorin-chief of 10 magazine - living proof of how fabulously sexy you can look without ever going on a diet or dyeing your hair.
Yesterday I bumped into Plum Sykes, who although English has, ever since she joined American Vogue, adopted the Manhattan approach to grooming with gusto.
Her poker-straight hair looks virgin (i.e., not dyed; it must never look dyed), she is as thin as a whippet, attends Pilates classes almost hourly and has got this whole effortless-while-looking-as-if-you-are-on-the-set-of-Sex-And-The-City ethos down pat.
"I wish you had taken my picture yesterday, I was in Alaia," she wailed, confessing she was now in a High Street blouse, Chloe trousers and Chloe shoes.
"My advice when attending the shows? Never wear one designer head to toe - that is too fashion victimy - and never, ever wear jeans," she says.
Oh dear.
As she spoke, I was wearing the ancient Levis which I've had since the early 1980s and which are now all soft and contour-hugging, a Miu Miu frock jacket (too hot), plum Burberry platforms (too painful) and cream Prada bag, which I had just got leaked Biro all over.
Ah well.
Of course, the great thing about having a signature style is that you don't get swayed - unlike me.
On Saturday, having sat behind Demi Moore at the Temperley London show, I decided I needed an emergency appointment to have my hair straightened and that I would try a centre parting.
After bumping into so many pretty girls from Wallpaper* magazine wearing Balenciaga, I high-tailed it to Barneys to buy a $1,400 (£692) Balenciaga cardigan that a) I can't afford, and b) will get eaten by moths.
And then, on Saturday night, after Ralph Lauren, I stood on the cobbled streets of SoHo trying to hail a cab in competition with a pack of models (I don't know what the collective term is for a group of teenage catwalk beings, apart from "annoying"), all of whom were in skinny jeans and beaten-up trainers.
I rued the day I had spent £500 on Gucci shoe-boots instead of £20 on a pair of plimsolls.
What were those in the fashion-know wearing last week?
I spotted lots of Gladiator sandals, big statement handbags, lots of Lanvin and legions of floaty Balenciaga dresses.
Like most women, it seems the fashion pack is finding it very hard to abandon pretty print dresses for the more severe tailoring we are all supposed to be wearing this autumn.
Who is the bestdressed woman in fashion?
It has to be the formidably tanned and sinewy Carine Roitfeld, editor of French Vogue, who despite the fact she is well past 50 is still sexier than any model on the catwalk.
She's a woman who can make a jacket worn as a skirt look somehow right, and who can carry off wearing a corset, a pair of footless tights and absolutely nothing else.
Front row at Vera Wang on Friday, Carine was wearing a Balenciaga skirt with jewelled hem, Marc Jacobs heels, a Marc Jacobs clutch (although she famously hates carrying a handbag; she finds them vulgar) and an old grey tank-top.
When I asked her what makes a woman stylish, she said: "You 'ave to not care. The more expensive something is, the more recklessly you 'ave to wear it."
The woman we will most miss in the front row this season is, of course, the late, redoubtable Isabella Blow, former fashion director of Tatler, the woman responsible for nurturing the talents of both John Galliano and Alexander McQueen, and whose eccentric signature style of feathery hat, bright red lipstick, avant garde outfits and impossible shoes was never about status or price tag, but far more importantly about what was fun and what was wonderful.
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