Last night at Betsey Johnson, I was stalking the runway, trying to recognize if there were any celebrities around. A tiny blonde woman appeared and disappeared suddenly beside me; it was Kristin Chenoweth. (I think.) Then, just as I saw Johnny Weir, an entourage emerged from backstage. In its center was a pouf of hair. The hair was blue, and the bearer of the hair was being led, in a slow procession, by a phalanx of burly men in black suits, who were themselves surrounded by an outer circle of wiry, microphone- and camera-bearing practitioners of the craft of getting quotes from celebrities. The process of seating a major celebrity at a fashion show is prolonged, deliberate, and full of pomp; it's not entirely unlike how I imagine the presentation of some new member of the royal household to the court could have gone in the 15th Century. Only with a little more pushing. In any case, it was gradually revealed that the hair belonged to Nicki Minaj. Then the show started — and the first models walked out to Nicki Minaj's music.