Pfft, I hate Christmas Day. It's for children and families. Not

Host: The city was wrapped in winter light, that pale, metallic hue that turns everything — even joy — into something aesthetic. Snowflakes drifted past the tall windows of a fashion studio, melting before they reached the concrete sidewalk below. Inside, the space was clean, silent, and deliberate — like a cathedral built for form instead of faith.

Bolts of fabric rested like sleeping angels along the walls. The air smelled faintly of wool, paper, and cologne. The faint hum of a sewing machine in the distance was the only reminder that creation was still happening here.

Jack stood near a mannequin draped in black silk, hands in his pockets, staring out at the white street beyond. Jeeny, sitting at the worktable, traced a finger along a sketchpad, her gaze thoughtful — half on the design, half on him.

Jeeny: (softly) “Karl Lagerfeld once said, ‘Pfft, I hate Christmas Day. It’s for children and families. Not for people like me.’”

Jack: (without turning) “Can’t say I blame him. The man lived in fabric, not flesh.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe he just preferred control to chaos. Families, after all, are messy — uncurated.”

Jack: (smirking) “So was he, under the couture.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But Christmas isn’t for people who build worlds — it’s for people who still believe in one.”

Jack: “You sound sentimental.”

Jeeny: “You sound lonely.”

Host: The light shifted, falling across Jack’s face — cold, angular, the shadow of someone who admired beauty because it stayed still when people didn’t.

Jack: “You ever notice how holidays are designed to remind you what you’re missing? The ads, the songs, the families in matching pajamas — it’s all choreography. A performance of belonging.”

Jeeny: “And yet, some of us still rehearse it every year.”

Jack: “Because we’re told we’re supposed to.”

Jeeny: “No. Because we still want to believe that love can be as simple as dinner and laughter.”

Jack: (scoffing) “You’ve clearly never sat through one of my family’s Christmas dinners.”

Jeeny: “I don’t need to. Every family’s table is its own battlefield — silence between words, smiles stretched over regret.”

Jack: “So why celebrate it?”

Jeeny: “Because beneath the ruins, there’s still tenderness. Even Lagerfeld’s cynicism had loneliness folded into it.”

Host: The studio clock ticked, echoing in the high ceiling like a small, consistent truth. Jeeny rose, crossed to the window, and stood beside him. Snow fell faster now, painting the city white — an immaculate world, too pure to last.

Jeeny: “You know, I don’t think he hated Christmas. I think he hated what it demanded of him.”

Jack: “What’s that?”

Jeeny: “Vulnerability. The day insists on feeling — on being part of something, even if it hurts.”

Jack: “And for people like him — like us — that’s dangerous.”

Jeeny: “Because feeling breaks the frame.”

Jack: “And he spent his life perfecting the frame.”

Jeeny: “Until he forgot the art inside it.”

Host: Her words landed like snow on glass — quiet, delicate, but impossible to ignore. Jack turned to look at her. For a moment, the distance between cynicism and truth felt paper-thin.

Jack: “So, what, you think I’m like him?”

Jeeny: “In ways you wouldn’t admit. You hide behind precision. You curate your emotions the way he curated clothes — measured, refined, never unbuttoned.”

Jack: “That’s survival, Jeeny. Not style.”

Jeeny: “Maybe once. But now it’s just loneliness disguised as taste.”

Jack: “You think the world deserves our chaos?”

Jeeny: “No. But someone should.”

Host: Outside, a child laughed — a sound bright enough to pierce the thick windows, echoing faintly through the sterile perfection of the studio. Jack’s expression softened, just slightly.

Jack: “You really think that’s what Christmas is for? Forgiving the world its ugliness?”

Jeeny: “Not forgiving it. Redeeming it — even if just for a night.”

Jack: “And people like Lagerfeld, or me, or anyone who’s built their life on solitude — what are we supposed to do? Sit by the fire and pretend?”

Jeeny: “No. Sit by the fire and remember.”

Jack: “Remember what?”

Jeeny: “That even isolation is a kind of yearning. You don’t reject connection unless you’ve known its warmth once.”

Jack: (after a pause) “Maybe the man just didn’t like bad sweaters.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That too.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound small but genuine — like a crack of warmth in a cold room.

Jeeny: “You know what’s funny? People think cynics don’t care. But cynicism is just grief with better tailoring.”

Jack: “Grief for what?”

Jeeny: “For innocence. For the kind of belief that doesn’t check the price tag.”

Jack: “You mean, for the part of us that used to wake up excited for something as silly as snow.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The part that didn’t know beauty could be designed, only felt.”

Jack: “You make it sound like Christmas isn’t about God or gifts. It’s about mourning the loss of wonder.”

Jeeny: “And occasionally, finding it again.”

Host: The snow outside thickened, muting the city’s usual noise. The streetlights glowed softly through the haze, their halos trembling like fragile ornaments hung too high to reach.

Jack: “You think Lagerfeld ever felt it again — that wonder?”

Jeeny: “Maybe in silence. In the click of scissors, in a piece of fabric that fell perfectly. Beauty was his prayer, even if he didn’t call it that.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s something. Not all of us find love in faces. Some find it in creation.”

Jack: “Then maybe he didn’t hate Christmas at all. Maybe he just found his own version of it — every time he made something that didn’t exist before.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. His nativity scene was a runway. His manger was a sketchbook.”

Host: The studio lights dimmed, flickering softly in the reflective surfaces. The snow had stopped, and a quiet brightness settled over the city — the kind that only comes after surrender.

Jack: (softly) “You know, I used to think Christmas was a lie — this commercial performance of joy. But maybe it’s just humanity trying to remind itself that joy still exists.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Even the fake snow is an act of faith — a small rebellion against despair.”

Jack: “And those who hate it?”

Jeeny: “Are just the ones who wanted it to be real too much.”

Host: The clock struck six, the sound clear, elegant, final. The day was ending, but something between them had opened — fragile, real.

Jeeny: “Maybe the people who claim to hate Christmas are the ones who need it most. Because it’s not about religion or gifts — it’s about grace. About remembering that even the coldest heart still wants to be seen.”

Jack: (quietly) “Seen, or loved?”

Jeeny: “They’re the same thing when you stop hiding.”

Jack: “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of the season — or the soul?”

Host: She turned back to the sketches, the pencil gliding softly across paper — lines becoming shape, shape becoming form. Jack watched her for a moment, the corners of his mouth lifting, the faintest trace of warmth breaking through.

Host: And outside, the city shimmered — clean, silver, alive.
No carols, no bells, no spectacle. Just quiet. Just breath.

And perhaps, somewhere in that stillness,
Lagerfeld’s words found their truest echo —
not in rejection, but in longing:

that even those who claim to hate Christmas
are simply those who never stopped wishing
for a place to belong,
for a moment uncurated,
for a light that does not fade when the cameras do.

Because Christmas — real Christmas —
isn’t for children or families.

It’s for the lonely,
the dreamers,
the ones who still look at the world and whisper,

“Make it beautiful again.”