Redeem now The glam squad was panicking. I was in Paris and Le Bal des Débutantes, the world's most exclusive debutante ball, was just 48 hours away.
At the end of a long hallway at the Shangri-La Hotel, once the palatial residence of a descendant of Napoleon Bonaparte, 18 young women were preparing for their society debuts.
Pushed against cream-colored walls, Hollywood mirrors lined with light bulbs illuminated the participants' faces. The soon-to-be debutantes — with some wearing plush, monogrammed robes with matching slippers — sat back in gold chairs as makeup artists, armed with a vast collection of Nars cosmetics, got to work.
It was a trial run before the main event, but there was a hum of excited chatter among the girls. Most were meeting for the first time. Some descended from ancient royal dynasties; others were children of entertainment titans or business moguls.
The rehearsal seemed to be going smoothly, but there was a problem — one of the girl's diamond-encrusted tiara refused to stay put.
Teale Burrell had a solution in mind. The day before, she'd been playing with some fishing wire — which is malleable, transparent, and strong — and thought it would be perfect for securing the diadem in place.
The Shangri-La Hotel in Paris, France. ERIC PIERMONT/AFP via Getty Images Show less 
A debutante dances at Le Bal des Debutantes. Maria Noyen/Insider Show lessThen 17, Teale was one of the youngest debutantes in Le Bal's 2022 class.
She was also my ticket to the glitzy event, where I spent an evening as a fly on the wall — witnessing displays of staggering wealth and privilege, unlike anything I'd seen before.
A year later, it's still a night I'll never forget.
A 21st-century debutante
Before following Teale to Le Bal, the closest I'd been to a debutante ball was seeing them on TV shows like "The Summer I Turned Pretty" and movies like "She's the Man."
What I saw onscreen gave me pause. The pageantry struck me as outdated and slightly demeaning. Who, I wondered, would take part in something like that today?
I found my answer in Teale, dubbed "the English Rose" by Le Bal's organizers.
Along with her younger brother, Bertie, she grew up in the UK, bouncing between her family's homes in Sussex, in southeast England; West London; and Scotland. Her mother, Lady Louise Burrell, is the daughter of the late 12th Duke of Argyll, Ian Campbell. Campbell, who died in 2001, was thought to be among the wealthiest men in the UK in the 1970s, having amassed a wealth of £87 million, as The Guardian reported in his obituary. It also made reference to the family's ancestral home, a palatial Scottish residence near Loch Fyne known as Inveraray Castle with roots dating back to the 1700s.
Teale spent some of her childhood visiting Scotland but attended a private girls boarding school in England where uniforms were mandatory, cliques ran rampant, and most of the students came from money. Once, Teale told me, a school friend casually discovered a Cartier ring — which cost upward of $790 — in the pocket of her pajamas.
Teale wasn't out of place at a high-society event (her mom holds the title of "lady," after all), but she also wasn't quite what I'd pictured.
The first time we met was at her family's multi-storied house that the British real-estate site Zoopla estimates costs over £3 million (around $3.6 million) on a quiet street in West London. It was the day of her dress fitting for Le Bal, over a month away.
Teale excitedly greeted me at the front door, wearing jeans and a navy sweater over a white, collared shirt. Her red hair was tied in a lopsided bun.
As we waited for the dress to arrive in her living room, Teale — who spent a lot of her childhood at her family's farm in the British countryside — told me she'd always felt at home "outdoors doing mostly practical things, from working with machinery to riding horses to just messing around in mud."
But we wouldn't be doing any of that. Minutes after I arrived, the doorbell rang. The dress was here — an item so prized it was delivered by a member of the Fovari team in person.
We all rushed down to the family kitchen where Teale, surrounded by marble countertops, heirloom paintings, and an empty dog bed, tried on her gown for the first time.
The Fovari dress was handcrafted from blush silk organza and took between 80 and 100 hours to make. It also carried a hefty price tag: €25,000, or about $26,500. Teale would wear it only once.
Just like Cinderella's, the gown was massive, engulfing Teale in layers of tulle and chiffon. But once the fabric settled, it was clear the bodice fit her like a glove.
"I can't get over this," Teale said, taking in her appearance in a floor-length mirror.
The unassuming teenager I had spoken to moments before was no longer in the room. In her place, was someone who seemed prime to walk up the Met Gala steps.
Le Bal is no ordinary debutante ball
Teale's debutante journey started out like any good fairy tale: with a call from a fairy godmother.
In this story, that's Ophélie Renouard, who founded Le Bal in 1994 with a mission to resurrect a 200-year-old tradition that started in the UK. In their heyday, debutante balls had one purpose: to parade women in front of the denizens of high society with the aim of finding a suitable marriage partner.
The organizers of Le Bal don't shy away from the historical origin of the event. But when I first spoke to Renouard over the phone ahead of last year's event, she wanted to make clear that her event had evolved.
The event is now focused on giving back, she told me. In recent years, Le Bal has partnered with humanitarian groups like the Seleni Institute, which works to provide resources to improve perinatal mental health, Enfants d'Asie, which promotes women's education in Southeast Asia, and the World Central Kitchen, which provides meals to communities in crisis.
Debutantes are also no longer required to wear white dresses to symbolize their virginity. And, Renouard said, no one can buy their way into the event.
"I get requests every week. People say, 'I want my daughter to go to the ball. How much does it cost? Blah, blah, blah.' It doesn't cost anything," Renouard told me in 2022. "I invite people because I find them interesting and because we can tell a story about them."
More often than not, that "story" is about the debutante's family. From what I gathered, that also means they tend to be rich, royal, or famous.
Previous generations of Le Bal debutantes include Lily Collins, the daughter of the musician Phil Collins; former President George H.W. Bush's granddaughter Lauren Bush; and Ava Phillippe, Reese Witherspoon's daughter.
Teale's class of debutantes, pulled together in the summer of 2022, was no different. They included Leah Behn, the daughter of Princess Martha Louise of Norway, who made her debut in a powder-pink, one-shouldered Giambattista Valli gown, and Annabel Zimmer, who wore an edgy gray Jean Paul Gaultier dress featuring a glittery red heart.
Ahead of this year's ball on November 25, Renouard is gradually announcing a new class of debutantes. Unsurprisingly, they also come from wealthy families. So far the list includes Liza Webster, the daughter of former US President Bill Clinton's chief of staff, and Advaitesha Birla, the daughter of an Indian billionaire industrialist.
No one's there to find a husband
The motivations among those taking part are also very different from the debutantes in the 18th century. None of the debutantes I spoke to last year at Le Bal were there to find a husband.
On the day of the trial run, I spent a few minutes chatting to Princess Martha Louise while we watched her daughter Leah — a debutante like Teale — pose for photos that would land in glossy lifestyle magazines. The princess told me how debutante balls of the past were "basically used to marry off the young women to be dependent on men their entire lives." Today's debutantes are independent, she said.
Teale had her own reasons for saying yes to Le Bal.
"What really drew me to it is just the whole adventure behind it," Teale said. "It's something you don't get to do every day."
Perhaps more importantly, going to Le Bal was an opportunity for Teale to let loose — if only for a night — six months after losing her dad to pancreatic cancer.
"It's like going away on holidays," she said. "When you're out on holiday, you leave all your problems at home."
His death forced her to grow up fast and in ways she didn't expect, Teale told me. It also put a lot into perspective. "You suddenly realize what is important and what isn't," she said.
Cinderella arrives
As my Uber pulled into the Shangri-La the night of Le Bal, two concerns ran through my mind: Would I stick out like a sore thumb in the black floral gown I'd borrowed from a friend at the last minute, and could I walk in my new £40 heels?
One wobbly step in front of the other, I made it to the entrance, where a doorman ushered me inside to a whole new world of luxury.
Hundreds of guests in floor-length dresses and classic tuxedos ascended a curved, white marble staircase, adorned with large pink roses and candles.
At the top of the stairs, an orchestra made up of three violinists and one cellist welcomed us into the ballroom. Chandeliers glittered from above, illuminating the decorative gold-and-marble cornice around the 20-foot-tall ceiling.
As guests sipped on sparkling wine served in glass flutes, the chatter in the ballroom grew louder. At about 10 p.m. the sound of a bell signaled the start of dinner.
I recognized at least one of the guests — Hans Zimmer, the famed Hollywood composer.
Later in the evening, I'd laugh to myself as he and his daughter Annabel cracked up while trying to remember the steps of the waltz during the father-daughter dance.
Zimmer disappeared into the main dining room along with other parents of debutantes and VIPs. Everyone else, myself included, was sent off to separate, smaller side rooms separated by large archways.
I found my seat at a table in the corner along with other reporters and editors, most of whom had been to Le Bal at least once or twice before. As we dug into our unmemorable three-course meal, some of them gushed about past events, regaling the table with stories of celebrities' debuts and predicting what each debutante would wear.
Whispers spread that one of the debutantes was wearing a piece of jewelry from Marie Antoinette's collection — the same Antoinette who was beheaded for her royal life of excess while the French population starved.
If anyone picked up on the irony, no one said it aloud.
Finally, the long-awaited debut
After dinner, the moment we'd all been waiting for finally arrived, as the master of ceremonies called everyone's attention to each debutante's entrance.
Every time a name was announced, along with the debutante's cavaliers (their male counterparts), the room erupted into applause as the young women made their way around each table to electronic-pop music more suited for a runway show.
Meanwhile, the emcee listed their achievements and the names of their parents.
There were no surprises in the lineup — royals, aristocrats, children of Hollywood icons. Some of the debs appeared perfectly comfortable being the center of attention, while others looked like deer caught in headlights.
Then, it was Teale's turn.
With her hair swept into a chic updo, she walked into the room, tightly gripping the hand of Archie Campbell, her cousin and cavalier, who sported a traditional Scottish kilt.
Later in the evening, standing on a balcony with sweeping views of the Eiffel Tower, Teale took a drag from a cigarette, taking care not to get ash on her couture gown. She told me she had zero memories of her entrance, having blacked out from the nerves.
When the clock struck midnight, guests cavorting around the dining room, bars, and terrace gathered in the ballroom for the traditional father-daughter waltz.
Teale stood by as a French princess kicked off the dance at the center of the ballroom with her dad.
I noticed Teale's eyes glistening, perhaps thinking about her own father, as she watched the pair glide around the room, swaying in unison to Strauss' "The Blue Danube."
Minutes later, all the debutantes stepped onto the dance floor with their cavaliers as classical string music reverberated in the ballroom.
For a brief moment, I felt lost in time watching modern-day princesses dance with princes. Natasha Connery and Harper Peck, the grandchildren of Sean Connery and Gregory Peck, respectively, swayed to the music together.
Mid-dance, I spotted Teale wearing a pair of scuffed-up sneakers, almost concealed by her floor-length gown.
"They were some gross trainers that have been worn to death," Teale told me, revealing she'd snuck off to change her shoes because her feet were in so much pain from wearing heels she'd cried.
As the night waned, it became crystal clear that I was still in the 21st century.
Every so often, I spotted a camera flash — debutantes taking selfies and documenting the evening in photos, BeReals, and TikToks. Among them was a video uploaded by Annabel Zimmer that showed the debutantes' day looks. The video, which later racked up over 2.8 million views on TikTok, then cut to them modeling their couture gowns.
Le Bal came to a close in the early hours of the morning with a handful of parents dancing to "September" by Earth, Wind, and Fire. Their kids, however, had ditched their couture for regular clothes and were now gathered in the lobby to call Ubers and party in Paris.
For them, the night was only starting. "We didn't go to bed," Teale told me on a call days after Le Bal, her voice still hoarse from partying until 6 a.m.
The end of a fairy tale
Nearly a year after Le Bal, Teale warns me: "It's not gonna be the story you're probably wanting to hear."
Now 18, Teale is calling me from Les Roches, a prestigious hospitality school in the mountains of Switzerland where she's started her first year of university, hoping to carve out a career in the industry and help make it more sustainable. I wanted to know how she felt looking back on her time at the event and if she would do it again.
"I loved all of it. Every single moment," she said.
But when she got home, reality hit.
Following the publication of magazine spreads and viral TikToks, Teale received unwanted attention, including a few marriage proposals from strangers, along with comments from people criticizing the event as "old-fashioned" and classist.
"I would be saying the same thing if I wasn't there, seeing a bunch of girls in fantastic jewelry, fantastic dresses, walking around a room, being silly," she said. "I would be so jealous. I'd be like, 'Why can't I be doing that?'"
A wave of grief also hit her in the weeks after Le Bal as she struggled to deal with her father's death. Combined with the stress of finals, it resulted in what she describes as a "breakdown" over the holidays.
It wasn't the ending I expected to hear from Teale, though Teale added that most of the comments directed toward her online were positive, which gave her a much-needed "mental confidence boost."
Le Bal also opened a new chapter for Teale and her mother, a former debutante herself.
"After Paris, she realized how actually grown up I was," Teale said. "She suddenly related to my head space for the first time in a long time."
Teale's Cinderella story is over, but for others, it's just beginning.
In a few days, Le Bal 2023 will welcome a whole new class of teenage debutantes. Just as Teale did, they'll feel like they've stepped into a fairy tale.
But, as Teale aptly pointed out, fairy tales don't last forever. They end.
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