AFI and SAFW have come and gone again and sigh I’m still a A Grade dork, my hair does not have the right kind of French girl kink, my legs can and never will be twigs… but hey a girl can dream, and I still cannot pull off clogs.
This particular time of the year can tend to fill me with complete anxiety, I envisage an Alexa Chung inspired outfit and daydream about breezily walking into Fashion week with all the airs and graces of a style icon / media mogul. However, reality; fair friends, comes crashing down on me like walking across a pile of legos barefoot..
I pull out the garments I had pictured in my mind and happily don said look, to then step in front of the mirror and find I have morphed into a jelly tot swathed in fabric with blocks of wood attached to my feet. Panic and pandemonium begin to set in. The nesting process starts by pulling piece after piece of clothing from my wardrobe and then ripping it off in anger, after this ritual happens 6 or 7 times I end up in foetal position amongst the piles on the floor, tears of anxiety streaming down my face, cursing my dutch ancestors for my dense bone structure and ample bosom.
2016 was the year I had decided to throw in the towel on this exhausting malarky and grow a pair. I know now that I can love fashion intensely from a distance and look at the wondrous things that beautiful fashion girls can wear and marvel at them. However when it comes to my personal being, authenticity and comfort must remain.
So when I trundled off to watch a friend of mine’s show in March (this would be my fourth year in attendance to these events, yes, I’m a rookie), I decided to be brave and by that I mean truly vulnerable. I pulled an old pair of beloved black Country Road cropped trousers from the back of my cupboard, wore my black silk short sleeve shirt that was given to me by my gran and my black witchery brogue-thingies (I have no idea what that shoe is called). Grabbed my gold and black feather necklace another beloved piece and my leather jacket (also black) and slipped into them, breathing a sigh of relief I finally felt like me. I know I know its a cardinal sin to wear black head to toe, however, to be completely honest I wanted to fade away into the background and not be noticed. I wanted to slip in and slip out and hopefully not slip walking to my seat. I wanted to enjoy looking at the clothes and then go have a cinnamon latte with my sister afterwards and speak about what we saw and not who we saw.
As someone who is innately clumsy and tends to say the wrong things to the wrong people constantly, invisibility is comfortable, invisiblity is safe and from that place I can sit and dream of who I want to be when I grow up, and what cool scenarios I can end up in, where I can be funny, witty, sartorially appropriate and outgoing all at the same time.