An Affair to Remember
Most women I know have had a moment when they realise they have fallen irrevocably, dangerously, in love with fashion. It begins with the casual eyeing of a dress in Topshop, then passes through the pursestrings/ heartstrings tug of should-I-shouldn’t-I, until you have lost all reason and simply immerse yourself in another, more beautiful world. My moment came when I had spent three hours on the floor of my room making a mood chart of the Autumn/Winter trends that most inspired me. I then followed this by doing my daily checks of various fashion blogs (What Katie Wore being my most treasured) before contemplating whether I could buy a winter coat already, this being July. The sad truth of the matter being that I already knew I couldn’t, having ransacked my overdraft the previous week with sale purchases in the said shop, and a subscription to Vogue.
My love affair with fashion all started, in a somewhat clichéd manner, because of a man. We split up, and what self-esteem I had constructed was as tattered as the pizza menus that littered our university kitchen. I had never been one for retail therapy before, mufti days had terrified me, and I only wore clothes that went some way to making me blend in. (Or as my still elegant grandmother put it at a family reunion, bluntly, loudly and evidently disappointed, ‘You were never a stylish teenager’). The day after I became single, I bought three sets of underwear. I defended the cost by reasoning they were pretty and made me smile. Those two factors became the primary influence in my search for clothes. I searched for anything that was feminine, structured and didn’t have to be ironed – an unnecessary task considering how much of an effort it felt to go to get replacement wine/vodka/gin/chocolate after a night of tears, let alone trek to the laundry room.
In less than a year, I stopped minding about the man, and became fully focused on finding the one… the perfect wear-with-anything coat, black bra, or interview dress. I once found the most incredible vintage leather holdall in a charity shop, and it made me beam with pride for an entire week. I went from a fear of everything except plain, greeny blue (I’d been once told it was my colour) to have a veritable rainbow in my wardrobe, and an abundance of florals, not to mention stripes and dots. I smartened up, due to several volunteering and paid jobs, but felt free as well to indulge in some looser, lounging around clothes, secure than they would no longer make me feel hopelessly lethargic. Men’s clothes were added – oversized cardigans, long belts – and I felt success instead of longing for the ex’s jumper. I went to my art history seminars, not trying to appear invisible in the ubiquitous student attire of hoody and jeans, but choosing the clothes that made me feel bright and alive, and able to speak up. Ironically, I fitted in better than ever around my own friends and classes of sartorially confident and imaginative individuals.
As I became a more frequent visitor to the various high street stores, I simultaneously, quite unconsciously, began researching more about fashion. I bought Vogue for a holiday and somehow every month turned into a holiday, while my weekly moodbooster became Grazia instead of Dominos. A friend’s lust for Rosie Huntington-Whitely led to a brief knowledge of models. Flurries of articles about Tavi meant I discovered a whole world of fashion blogging.
Gradually fashion crept into my thoughts at unexpected times. I’d lie in the bath, and idly notice how my shampoo and conditioner bottles had rounded shapes like a woman’s neck and shoulders, which would divert me to thoughts on the Jean Paul Gaultier perfume, recent ‘Mad Men’ esque revival, and Dolce and Gabbana’s adverts with Madonna as a sultry Italian housewife. When in lectures I found abstract art became just too abstract for my understanding, my gaze would drift to the fierce monochrome style of the student two rows in front. I once studied Nancy Goldin, and on looking at her leather-bound masks, immediately thought not of S&M (the standard response to the tutor) but a previous collection of Christopher Kane. The night before last, I dreamt Karl Lagerfeld offered me a job. (My thoughts on waking up: god I was brave to call him Karl in the interview; it was odd that Chanel were doing a bright red dress; and why did the new collection revolve around topiary?)
In a few months, I reach a milestone. I am going to London Fashion Week, for the Spring/Summer 2010 collections. A subscription to a student fashion magazine, Fashion Insider, offered out of the blue press tickets –Erdem or Burberry Prorsum is on the cards, depending on the day. I will drink champagne and have a good excuse to wear heels. Above all, I know I am again to have my head swimming and sighing in lust and love. What’s a girl to do?