The liar, the witch and her wardrobe
For me, one of the most discombobulating things about lockdown ending was stumbling out into the fresh air, rubbing my eyes, looking at people on the street and realising I had absolutely no clue whatsoever what was in fashion anymore. Lucky old Rip Van Winkle, he conked out under a tree; woke up decades later to discover his children were old, his wife had died, and America was an independent country; I survived one plague only to discover that hipster jeans were back in fashion.
I thought we had reached a consensus on certain fashion rules, an Overton window established, a compromise painfully agreed. As a society there were certain fashion rubicons that would not be crossed. Big bulky women’s jackets from the 90s made everyone look like MC Hammer, layers of tangled gold chains were what Jill from Nighty Night wore, cycling shorts were a war crime. We agreed, we joked about them on nostalgia shows on Channel 5, I was there, I remember. Now just because skinny teenagers on TikTok have discovered sleeveless turtlenecks and bootcut tracksuit bottoms, are we just going to forget all the painful lessons from the past? Was my generation's sacrifice for nothing? I feel like a WWI soldier reading a headline about Hitler invading Poland. We promised NEVER AGAIN.
Cover of September’s Vogue?
Admittedly, I have always had a shaky grip on looking snappy. My fashion sweet spot is flowery dress with a cardigan. Or as I like to call it, Mrs. Brown's Boys realness meets ET when he was dressed up by Drew Barrymore. In lockdown I finally lost all contact with fashion ground control and drifted into my sister-wife-living-her-best-life-on-a-compound years. Did I love and take care of the clothes that accepted me exactly as I was during that disorienting time? Or did I hate them for their pathetic give and flexibility? For two years I wore the same three outfits, trapping them in a cruel cycle of abuse and neglect. Baggy M&S dresses worn out of view on Zoom calls, dumped on the cold tundra of my bedroom floor, then washed at too high a temperature. Eventually they all quietly gave up the will to live and I was glad they were dead. I loathed their need to please. I wanted the tightness of potential holding my gut in, the stabbing of a zip, the fabric that refuses to stretch, the wince of a button that doesn’t quite close.
I have always had an abusive relationship with clothes. There’s nothing I like more than sauntering into a clothes shop, buying outfits without trying them on and promising them the whole damn world. Yes, they may sense something isn’t right, maybe we don’t fit, things feel uncomfortable, like perhaps we're not quite right for each other. It's only temporary I promise them, as I measure them up against myself in my bedroom mirror, again without trying them on. I’m about to lose weight, I’m going to change, things are going to be very different soon. Then the things we’ll do together - brunches, garden parties, maybe even a casual boat trip?
Then months pass. Do I change? No. Who do I blame for not fitting? It's not me, it’s them. How do I reward them? Keeping them hidden inside the wardrobe like a shameful secret, the physical evidence of my inability to fulfil my potential. Those innocent blameless clothes stay trapped in my closet like a repressed 1950s housewife played by Julianne Moore. Do I accept defeat and give them away? NEVER. If I ever went missing and the police had only my wardrobe to go on, they would issue a search for a six-foot teenage gymnast, who went to a lot of cocktail parties.
Like most things, it would be so much easier if I was a man. They hit thirty-five and gracefully sink into their Richard Briers years, checked shirt underneath a woollen jumper with jeans. They look sensational. Women love it, they love it. Talk about The Good Life.
Oh Tom!!
So, what the hell IS in fashion? Who can I turn to for guidance? Fashion magazines? Listen folks, never worry about machines completely taking over - the continuing existence of fashion journalists is proof that rich people will always find a way to pay themselves to do pointless things. If ever you feel like a bit of an imposter, remind yourself that right now in a kitchen in West London somebody is sighing to their partner “Can you pick up the kids? I’m just really up against it, I have to write 500 words on a new type of cardigan.”
I understand why fashion journalists existed in the past, magazines needed descriptions of hem lengths, widths of hats, bustle shapes, but surely the invention of cameras and the world’s first photograph of a jumper should have spelled the end of fashion journalism, around, say, 150 years ago. I mean god love them. Here is my 6000 word article on Chanel’s bumbags. If you don’t have time to read it, here are two pictures instead.
I know clothes can be magic. In my second year of university, I independently decided that I’d had a summer glow up. I slinked into the campus in a pair of jeans I had bleached myself, snakeskin boots I’d spray painted pink, a nightdress I’d bought in a charity shop and to finish the look off, a thick woollen shawl. The type you’d usually see worn by a widow shouting at British soldiers for burning her cottage down. I was also experimenting with Fake Bake, so my pale freckly skin had a coating of thick biscuity orange, which I then covered in ivory foundation because I hadn’t thought maybe if I was changing my skin tone by at least three races, I might need to adjust my makeup too. I looked insane, like a Bafta mask wearing a wooden mask. Yet I purred into that lecture theatre feeling like Sandy at the end of Grease. That is the power of really feeling yourself. So of course, clothes are fun but fashion is still stupid.
Yet, I know that’s a ‘wrong’ opinion. It’s not a sophisticated take. I feel the same way about fashion as I do when I look at modern art. I want to get it but I’m begging you, really, what ARE we doing here? Hearing that lime green is this summer’s colour feels as relevant as finding out almonds are good for your prostate. Every single autumn what do they say is ‘in’ this season? Shout it with me - MILITARY!! Every. Single. Year.
There’s a famous speech in The Devil Wears Prada, a film about a floundering young woman with terrible taste in boyfriends whose life is transformed by the magic of high fashion. She begins dismissive of the world of couture, learns her lesson and ends the film empowered by her time working at a fashion magazine. This speech is the turning point, the moment she is shamed by her boss Miranda Priestly, played by Meryl Streep, for ever thinking that fashion doesn’t matter. It's delivered like a legendary clap back, the courtroom closing argument, case closed, fashionistas “I’m going out the front with Gerry” moment.
And still, and yet, all I get from it is, I know the designer who made the shade of blue you're wearing popular. He didn’t invent the colour, just made it popular in clothes, for a bit. The jumper that you probably bought because it was on sale and never thought of again. Because who cares; it’s a jumper. And colours have existed for a long time. I have watched this speech about 40 times and I still DO NOT GET IT. Help me understand. Emily Blunt is in The Devil Wears Prada. What if I meet her and she asks me my honest opinion on that scene and it's the thing that prevents us from being best friends? That’s all I want in life, to be invited round to Emily and John’s house. All of that over, because of that stupid speech. Then I would truly, finally and completely become the real fashion victim.
IT’S JUST A BLUE JUMPER.
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