Paris Hilton Is My Stylist – Alec Ivan

May 16, 2026

She talks to me like she’s giving an interview. There’s a cadence to her voice that reminds me of the way the Renaissance changed the trajectory of the arts forever. The entirety of pop culture revolves around her. She dresses me in a casual pink tracksuit but does it in such a way that it doesn’t make me look like I’m going to the gym. She tells me there was one time she was hanging out with Britney and they arrived together at the club and for a single moment despite the cameras’ foggy lens as they danced to a thriving house rhythm there was a moment they felt freer than they’d been in a long time. Paris Hilton leans over and affixes a bedazzled ball cap to my head, which makes me, for a brief moment, feel like a trucker; yet that moment passes, as they tend to do, and in her eyes I see something I’d never encountered before, something that lies beneath her fortune that betrays a certain distrust. She changes the music, headphones in her ears, unable to hear me speak, which I do often and joyfully. Paris Hilton does my hair like Lindsey and looks down at the floor for a good period of time, watching a gnat writhe against the checkerboard tile. There are chairs in the dressing room but Paris Hilton tells me I can’t sit down yet as she isn’t done, and for some reason I don’t think she ever will be. Done, finished. She always has something to do, that’s what I know about her. What I know about her is that she’s the busiest person I’ve ever met and when she goes outside there will be flashbangs of pictures too bright and she won’t even squint and she’ll be dropped into a limousine and taken to a gala where she’ll make friends she’ll never see again. But for now Paris Hilton has me take off the tracksuit and slide on some flared jeans and has me put on a top that’s cropped just a little too much but she smiles in a tiny way and nods her head and continues working on my hair, which looks like Lindsey’s. She seems alone. She seems like she’s feeling an unknown emotion for the first time, something the rest of us are unfamiliar with, maybe cannot ever experience. Someone knocks on the door and tells her it’s time to leave. She takes her earbuds out and gives me an up-and-down with her eyes. She’s always taller than I expect her to be. The Simple Life is on TV behind her on mute and she swivels around and turns it off and looks back at me and asks “Sorry, were you watching that?” Paris Hilton is my stylist, and always will be no matter if she remembers my name or not, which she probably won’t. Before she leaves she gives me one last good look. She nods her head again. She moves a bit further away and her hair falls over her face and it’s the first time she seems obscure, like a ghost manifested before me, like something unreal, an urban legend. She turns on the PS2 for me and loads up San Andreas and gives me the controller and gives me a hug tighter than I thought she’d be able. She releases me and fixes my collar and says “That’s hot” and then leaves me alone. I stay in the dressing room for a long time. I play San Andreas. I think about Paris Hilton all the time. I play San Andreas. I find a shotgun. I kill lots of prostitutes for hours. Then the stage director comes into the room and tells me they’re live and I’m on soon. I save my progress and turn the television off. My reflection is gifted to me in the screen. I look at it. I say “That’s hot.” I say “That’s hot” over and over again until I sound exactly like her. Then I do the interview and talk to Kimmel about my recent film. We say a lot, but I’m not really here. Where I am is in the dressing room. Paris Hilton is my stylist. I’m playing San Andreas. I’m killing lots of prostitutes. And then a woman in a tracksuit shoots me. And then I die.