My love-hate relationship with fashion

Deep breath – it’s confession time.

Simply put: Sometimes, I hate fashion. There I said it. Don’t get me wrong; I love cute clothes and sassy shoes and style. I love the sentiment of self-expression through the aesthetic vehicle that is our choice of attire. I love the variety and diversity that fashion enables; whether it’s a Goth in Doc Martins on the tube or a red carpet regular adorned in couture, I fizz with excitement at the discernible manifestation of personality before my eyes. It’s truly beautiful.

But there’s another side to fashion – an ugly side. A dark, murky place filled with glossy magazines flaunting underfed, exploited little girls - part human, part makeup, part Photoshop – pouting with wide eyed sadness and radiating melancholy.

I’m a reasonably typical young woman – so yes, I like Topshop and boys and pretty clothes, but I also like food and – dare I say it - comfort.

Not a Saturday night goes by without the harrowing mental conflict surrounding the ‘heels or no heels’ dilemma. I mean they just hurt, don’t they? My feet, toes, calves, you name it. And at 21 years of age I resent requiring a human crutch to get me safely across London’s cobbled streets. Coupled with the fact that I will now be taller than pretty much every guy in the bar and will probably spend the evening trying (in vain) to crouch down inconspicuously.  

But oh, surely a small sacrifice for Giselle-like legs, poised posture and pushed out breasts?

Just.Look.At.Those.Legs.

Then there’s the stuff. The boundless, endless, interminable lust for more stuff. Combing the Brent Cross rails for a new outfit for a night out or fashion event has become my Saturday afternoon ritual. And with the likes of Facebook ensuring no great outfit goes unseen – or bad one unpunished – recycling the same clothes just isn’t an option. How incredibly sad.

Becky Bloomwood - the world's most famous shopoholic

When I want something, typically of the garment description, I’m like Becky Bloomwood on crack. No really. My yearning for the garment in question takes over me and in that moment, nothing else matters. We’ve all been there, staring through the windows of Harvey Nichols at the glittering displays of unsullied splendour and fashion finery. Perfectly proportioned Barbie Doll manikins draped in haute couture and dripping with diamonds, each dainty foot clad in coveted red-soled shoes - costing more than my car.

Yet Kate Moss has a pair and my cousin has a pair and my mum has a pair and I want, no, I need a pair. (Enter Becky Bloomfield on crack.)

Red Soled Christian Louboutins

Last but not least I must reference the evil seductress more commonly known as Victoria’s Secret.

Since it’s recent opening a mere 15 minute drive from my house a month ago I’m ashamed to say I own 12 of those pretty little hot pink shopping bags and enough baby pink tissue paper to start my very own art club.

One of Twelve...

There’s just something about the atmospheric lighting, sweet scent of vanilla and of course, the ethereal Angels strutting down the cinema screen sized video catwalk, that makes me want to spend, spend, spend. And what’s wrong with that?

Absolutely nothing at all, right?

Or so I thought, until I stumbled across what I can only describe as two preteens, in prostitute fancy dress, taking selfies in the changing rooms.

At 12 years old I thought thongs were flip-flops.

Probably because I wasn’t exposed to images of unworldly angels decked out in itchy lace knickers, push up bras and suspenders.

I was more than happy frantically rifling through the washing basket on a Monday night for my ‘Tuesday’ 'days of the week' cotton panties.

Why do these little girls subject themselves to discomfort and wedgies when they don’t have to? It’s just not worth it. (OK, sometimes it is, but I digress…)

Victoria's Secret Angels

Essentially, I think there’s something exceedingly creepy about teenyboppers in thongs. But hey, maybe that’s just me.

Maybe I’m looking into things too deeply. Maybe I'm too caught up in my own stark materialism. Maybe.

But I think not. I think Selfridges' slogan philosophy ‘I shop therefore I am’ says it all. This crude intonation – this mantra for morons - says more about our society than I care, or am brave enough, to delve into any deeper.