“I have nothing to weeaaarrr,” I moan, as I stare at the piles of clothes strewn across my bedroom. The marathon of pyjamas to outfit is too much today, and I sink into a heap of jumpers that have become overly familiar to see any potential in. I resent the people who talk about getting dressed in the morning as a fun, creative experience. I resent myself for not being able to spontaneously put together an iconic lewk. I’ve lost all sight of myself, my clothes, what I want to wear, who I even am…
I’m falling into a dark hole of moth-eaten cashmere and I have no desire to ever emerge again.
A fashion coma, the doctors call it, I hear their distant voices as they discuss my case. “She’s”…. “she’s”…. I can’t quite hear them, is it terminal?!. I drift back into unconsciousness.
The air is humid. I’ve arrived at the bus stop on Elgin Crescent, a man whistles at me as he passes in a van and I flush red – a flirtatious blush immediately rebutted by outrage at both this vile expression of misogyny and my conditioned flattery. Even in my dream state, I’m already disappointed in my ability to be a staunch feminist. I look around, why am I here? A young Kate Moss and Mark Wahlberg stare out at me from the AD plastered on the bus stop, their Calvin Klein’s dirtied by the London air.
A woman walks past, I hear her heels as she approaches and my head turns lazily to eye her up, wondering if she’ll be prettier than me or not. Her outfit immediately strikes a chord, effortlessly put together. The air is heavy and I unstick my thighs from the bus stop bench, intrigued enough to follow her. The way she carries herself with ease, advancing with purpose, I meander behind, escaping with her into this life.
Her summer coat flutters with her stride, a light cream colour with two lines of beige buttons running up the front. She’s transformed the coat into a lightweight, tailored dress, buttoned up to the top. Brushing just above her knees, the outfit is modest yet provocative, screaming sexy professionalism. A sartorial, ‘don’t fuck with me.’ If only I had that coat, I think. Her dark brown hair is cut short against her neck, and her heels clack on the pavement, light blue suede stepping her into the next part of her day.
I know that woman.
I watch as my mother walks away, obscured by youth, wearing the coat I stared at this morning, uninspired by its creamy nothingness, now transformed by a woman I love into something completely new and utterly desirable. The blue suede heels she still slips on her size three feet, hazily evaporate into the distance.
…
I drift up towards a grave voice, “Yes, a fashion coma, the worst case we’ve ever seen. We believe it was caused by an over consumption of celebrities on Instagram claiming they style themselves. I know – a modern tragedy. Sheer dresses remain the only transparent thing this world has to offer.”
The doctor’s voice fades out again… I wonder what she thinks of my outfit as I
Fall…
Deep…
Into my unconscious.
I find myself in a corridor, orange wood and the smell of stale sweat reminiscent of lower school games lessons sink my stomach. I stumble forward, confused how I got here from the glamorous streets of Notting Hill in the 90s.
I move towards some music, stifled by two heavy doors. A rhythmic shuffle shuffle step step which forces my feet to mimic the routine. I glance in through the windows at a group of women, feet tapping in unison, waves of laughter carrying them from one move to the next. I’m carried with them, out of the sweaty corridor and into their laughter, their chug, dig, scuffle, step. The dark curls and deep red smile of one of them, in the centre of the pack, catches my eye. Her movement is hypnotic, her body unbounded by self-consciousness. I tuck an escaped strand of hair neatly back behind my ear as I track her with my eyes.
The class is over and the women, abuzz with energy, start pouring through the double doors. In groups of two or three they chat and laugh, clutching on to each other as they tell stories from their day, recounting the class, the mistakes and the triumphs. My back slides down the wall, and crouched on the floor I watch them. I can’t tell how old my woman is, the one with the wild hair, but her eyes are deep with stories, her skin tanned by the outdoors, lips reflecting mine – hers are stretched into the widest smile I’ve ever seen, showing off a gap between her teeth, mine are heavy, parted in awe. My nana, wild, brave, and kind. She slips off her tap shoes, toes wriggling, and puts on a pair of sage green plimsoles that remind me of summers in her garden – lying in tall grass and eating slices of dense, slightly sunken cake.
I watch as she tugs on a cardigan, preparing for the brisk Suffolk night, buttoning in. It’s so familiar I can feel it itching me, wiry wool on bare skin. She looks completely comfortable, unbothered, her eyes focussed on something bigger, still tingling from dancing. The black wool is embroidered with tiny flowers in green and pink and encompasses her dark curls. Her outfit is almost completely black except for these splashes of colour and the dark red of her lips – she is an intricate tapestry, a considered colour palette woven against her dark backdrop. My mum had told me she embroidered those flowers herself, as I shrugged the cardigan on one day, and then discarded it in favour of something else, something less itchy. Now I see the importance of her hand-stitching, taking something dull and making it bright. This reflects in the way she lives, every day a new black cardigan, waiting to be embellished with colour.
I watch as she becomes hazy, I’m not ready to leave. Clinging on to the musty smell of my nana, drunk on her beauty, I fall back into a dreamless sleep.
…
Voices cut through my stupor, “ARE YOU READY TO GO?!” I wake up in a start, surrounded by clothes strewn across my bedroom in frustration. My cheek has become irritated, flushed with sleep and mottled by an unforgiving makeshift pillow. I pull out my nana’s cardigan from underneath me, breathing in the last scents of her, and slip it on.
“COMINGG MUUUM,” I scream down the stairs.
I go back to my wardrobe and take a look.
All my life I was a magpie. The shininess of women was always clear to me.
The bravery, the kindness and vulnerability.
I swooped down and stole it.
Growing up I watched my friends analytically, as they seemed just to know things, how to wear their clothes, live in their bodies, present themselves with confidence. I watched my mum, my nana, my aunts and cousins, as they interacted with people, chatted away with ease in the street, at the shops – open and warm – I collected what I admired and took it home with me. My friends danced, seemingly forgetting about their physicality, they moved with grace, loosened by the alcohol they knew how to drink. My mum dried my tears, knew how to make life seem manageable, the darkness of night seem welcoming, the nightmares disappear. I swooped down.
I’ve collected more than clothes - stolen gestures and glances, ways of speaking and greeting, comforting and loving. But as I look into my wardrobe, picking out my outfit for the day – the women in my life stare back at me.
I take them with me, into the next part of my day.
