Henry Conway: What 'Queen Sloane' did next

Before last week, few beyond the ''Chelsea set" had heard of Henry Conway. Now, the son of disgraced Tory MP Derek is a figure of ridicule. But the ''Queen Sloane" has a serious side, as an aspiring fashion writer. At the weekend, at the height of the furore, he went to cover New York Fashion Week. He presents - what else? - a party report

New Yorkers have an ability to step out of their apartment blocks looking immaculate, ready to take on the urban jungle with a BlackBerry in one hand and a skinny latte in the other.

	With his new haircut, Henry Conway was ready to face New York Fashion Week

The legions of perfectly turned-out glamazons on the streets during New York Fashion Week confirm the city as the home of the High-Maintenance Woman.

In Manhattan, venturing out without having been put together by a team of professional stylists and beauticians is close to profanity. So how do they do it? Manicurists and facialists are on tap at a fraction of the price in Britain.

Over here, a blow-dry is never considered a blow-out.

During brunch at Pastis, the legendary Meatpacking District bistro, judgment falls upon those who take things too easily.

On seeing one follicly challenged girl, cries of "Why is her hair so god-damn messy?" and "She looks like she was dragged through a hedge backwards" were hurled across plates of Eggs Benedict.

I hadn't given her a second glance, as her dishevelled up-do is commonplace in every corner of London. This flash of charmingly British grooming was alien to the table of cosmo-sinking Upper East Siders who had studied every box set of Sex And The City and not quite got it.

Shocking-pink column dress with colour co-ordinated Manolos? It's no wonder half the room wouldn't remove their Ray-Bans.

After this jolt, I rushed to superstar hair stylist David Voncannon, a genius with scissors whose nimble hands have touched the tresses of Julia Roberts, Julianne Moore and Gwyneth Paltrow.

Snipped to perfection, I was ready to take on the New Yorkers at the sartorial Super Bowl that is Fashion Week.

Alexander Wang's catwalk show was the place to spot fashion scenesters. Air-kissing along the front row was Ally Hilfiger, daughter of Tommy and one-time reality TV starlet, holding her décolletage for fear of her electric-blue silk vest giving the paparazzi too much of a show.

Countless beautiful creatures danced for the flashbulbs, not one recognisable to the British public, but all Page Six fodder (New York's equivalent of Tatler's "Bystander").

You'll no doubt see the clothes around Notting Hill soon: grunge knits, leather jackets with diagonal zippers - nothing that All Saints doesn't already do, but cut immaculately.

And Wang showed that be it embellished, deconstructed, ripped or knitted, black is the thing to wear in New York.

Downtown scenesters, with their "clean grunge" look, were in full force at Y-3's show at Pier 40.

With an ice-block backdrop, it was a positively Arctic experience, braved by Ioan Gruffudd and Victoria Beckham's producer pal Damon Dash.

The models strutted in a multitude of stylised tartan, though Ellen Pompeo from Grey's Anatomy and Helena Christensen eyed up classic wool dresses with deco asymmetrical detailing and just-casual-enough distressed edging.

When fashionistas feel the urge to eat, they head to Da Silvano. Beware the minefield of reservations: I spied Nicky Hilton (the eclipsed sister of Paris) failing to get a table and waiting in the cold, wrapped in her friend's North Face jacket (nooo, Nicky! There is never an excuse!).

To observe New York glamour at ease, the only event to go to was Diane von Furstenberg's "drop by" dinner, held in her studio lined with Warhol prints of her fine features.

While Fiat's Lap o Elkann and Vogue's Hamish Bowles held court, I spied Oscar-winning actress Susan Sarandon bopping to herself while watching the Super Bowl on the massive screen that hovered over the party.

While the commercialism of New York's Fashion Week has a glossy appeal, London's retains an element of anarchic chic that is more appealing. As we Brits know, style is best appreciated when it's a little rough around the edges.