Fou, très fou, foulard.
What a wonderful crazy thing, the foulard, it’s always got spring on its mind, in every season of time, at any age in life.
It blooms every year in a festival of colours along the avenues of Manhattan as on the boulevards of Paris, at the premieres of the West End and those of the Scala.
It floats lightly as if it has wings, it is shaped by the wind, it traces its own path and then puts itself front and center.
Crazy, like a crazy idea, to go completely crazy over.