Out Of Fashion
From Being Obsessed To Utterly Bored...
I think I may be out of fashion. I don’t mean that I look out of style, it is more that I care very little about what I look like. I partially blame Intersport. For a few seasons we were spoiled with the sample collection, which we carefully distributed in Romania. Some pieces landed in my own wardrobe, like hoodies and hiking trousers. Combine this with a very outdoorsy lifestyle of wood chopping, home renovations and ample of dogs and you get “the look”. It has been a long time since my DVF silk dresses and Fendi sandals have seen the light of day.
SECOND LIFE
But it is not just the lifestyle that has made me fall out of (love with) fashion. Socks and underpants aside I have always been a fervent second-hand shopper ever since I discovered the London charity shops during college. It felt like a treasure hunt. But in the past decade real hidden gems have been hard to find. After a while I simply stopped searching. I reall don’t shop. My last purchase was a multipack of underpants from the HEMA. That was almost two years ago.
Maybe I am elitist but buying H&M second hand for an amount of money that is probably more than what the item originally cost on sale does not turn me on. H&M in general does not turn me on. SHEIN, ZARA and ASOS I refuse to buy, even second hand. Even if the colour and style initially spark some interested, that quickly fizzles out when fit and quality are concerned.
I love natural materials. And they have become rare. I started counting back in 2007 in the UK, sampled charity shops in Sydney, checked the markets in Romania and now occasionally pop into places like the Salvation Army in the Netherlands and it is utterly disappointing. The same goes for overstock shops. Most materials are made up from man-made fibres like polyester, nylon, and acrylic. My skin starts to itch, just thinking about it. I want cotton, linen and hemp, silk and wool. In the past I have gotten very lucky, especially in the menswear department. I have a beautiful collection of Merino and cashmere jumpers and cardigans. Now, away from my wild life in the Transylvanian woods, where my only concern is keeping delicate things away from cat claws, I will start wearing them again.
MAKE DO AND MEND
I take care of what I have. I have a box full of cleaning and care products for my shoes. I get them glued and resoled on time at the local cobblers. I only buy really high-quality shoes and bags and they are literally lasting decades (I still have a pair of black and white Mary Janes that I bought for 15 guilders on sale at Invito in Haarlem on a teener tour trip with my then best friend). And when anything does get caught in any of my knitwear, I can rely on what my grandmother taught me (or refresh with the Instagram account of the Seam UK on how to repair clothes and shoes) and fix it.
I have an eclectic style and when given the opportunity I like to mix things up. But I have enough. Every time I moved house in recent years, I never fully emptied all the bags and boxes of clothes and shoes I own. There is still stuff in storage now. If I do the same as what some parents do with their kids’ toys, I can keep my wardrobe on rotation for the rest of my life, and likely never run out of options.
BORING
I don’t shop because I don’t need to. I also don’t want to, even if it would be window shopping. In a way I got bored with fashion. Possibly I overestimate the creativity and originality that kept me fashion focused for decades, but I rarely see something I find interesting, let alone wish to own. Fashion influencers, reality TV celebrities and personal branding strategies bore me to tears.
I have always loved the, I suppose, opposite ends of the fashion spectrum: haute couture, carefully crafted by illusive genius and fairy godmothers, and streetwear, created by whomever happens to wear it. Readytowear and high street have never really tickled me. There are few designers I love and Isabel Marant and Ulla Johnson are the exceptions. But I can’t even remember the last time I opened a fashion magazine or watched a catwalk show. What trickles in fashion wise on Instagram is not much, and even then was does slip into my feed I barely pay attention to.
STYLE WISE
On my way to buy ingredients for fresh baked brownies I heard two teenage girls coming my way. “Oh, my god I am sooooooo sorry” one exclaimed loudly. I have no idea what it was in reference to, but I am glad they drew my attention. I wonder if the vintage folding bikes they rode, were a statement against the ugly and annoying fat bikes that are buzzing around everywhere. One was wearing a burnt orange corduroy jumpsuit. The other jeans and a T-shirt. The light blue denim, the wide legs. The faded graphic print. The way the T-shirt was caught in the waist of the jeans looked more accidental than intentional. But it worked. So simple, but so nice.
“Bloody hell, Lee, you clean up nicely!”
The way I dress has always been a bit odd. Or “off”. Some of the anecdotal evidence I have shared before. There was for example the occasion of the first ever Vivienne Westwood show I worked at. On arrival in London my capsule wardrobe consisted not of casual chic items for an easy and effective mix and match, but of combat trousers and a bright yellow rescue workers coat. Not suitable for my new role as a fashion PR assistant (even I knew that) I swapped my army surplus attire for sophisticated black palazzo pants and a white shirt. On location at the Dorchester hotel someone had handed me a shiny apple green tie and ordered me to tie my hair back and put on some red lipstick. The head of my course at the London College of Fashion attended the show, as well as the after party, during which she managed to walk past me three times without recognizing me. When I finally found a moment to say hello, I was greeted with an appreciative: “Bloody hell, Lee, you clean up nicely!”
Like the age-old tale of the ugly duckling turning into a swan, some of us need a little magic, or at least a fairy Godmother to swoop in. In my case it was Malcolm. He was one of my colleagues at Bryan Morel PR and he was gorgeous. More encouragingly, he thought I was gorgeous too, if only I made a little more effort. Imagine me prancing around in my underwear in a PR office on Carnaby Street, after hours, sipping champagne and have a man who looks like the human embodiment of Barbie’s Ken, carefully selecting items from a designer sample collection to create the perfect outfit. No, this does not only happen in the movies. It was my real life for a blissful three years.
Slowly I started to develop my own sense of style. Then there came the moment where I popped by at the office on a college day, just to say hi. Malcolm was standing at the top of the stairs and as I walked up the steps he gasped and covered his mouth with his hand. By the time I made it all the way upstairs Malcom was in tears: “Remember I knew you when you were just a baby. Now you are a lady.” I had finally made Malcolm proud.
SELF LOVE
Things have taken a turn for the worse recently and I wonder what Malcolm would make of my makeshift wardrobe. Leaving Romania recently by car I threw some stuff in bags, only to discover on arrival in the Netherlands that not much of it matches. I am moderately bothered by it. Malcolm, I think would be in tears again. But this time tears of horror, and despair, not joy. I am hoping days like the ones we had at the office will come back in some shape or form. Where I have a reason to dress up. Or am just in the mood for it. The days I used to refer to as the “chauffeur driven life”, because the shoes I was wearing barely got me from the car to the front door of the restaurant.
It took weeks to scrub off the stench of fear and despair. For me to feel somewhat human again.
I know that me leaning into the practical side of my wardrobe, wasn’t just out of practicality. It was also a lack of self-love. Months of sleep deprivation, loneliness and loss led to depression. All I could cope with was keep everyone fed and watered. A task that I carried out in hoodies and jogging pants, and a pair of tatty UGG boots about two sizes too big.
I don’t need to be dressed up the nines every day, but the dishevelled state I was in when I arrived at my friends’ house this July, three days before my 47th birthday, I never want to experience again. It took weeks to scrub off the stench of fear and despair. For me to feel somewhat human again. To finally wear a dress.