A Lady's Urban Style Companion 905
Author: Jennifer Robertson
Monday, 21 April 2008
Column 1: The Habit Of A Lifetime
Fashion is an addiction, as any habitual user knows. I try to warn my friends when they express an interest in purchasing a few select items for the season. Just dabbling, that’s what they think they’re doing.
“I just really want a cropped leather jacket and a pair of Ray Bans,” they’ll whine.
“Yes, yes,” I tell them. “You look great now, but give it time and those items will become terribly passé and then you’ll come down hard. In a month or so you’ll be begging me for another hit, something stronger and more expensive every time.”
I’ve been a garment abuser for many years now. The telltale signs are all there. One need only open my over-stuffed wardrobe to see the filthy remains of past fixes. I roam Crown Street and South Dowling Street desperate for some tasty bargain when I should be gainfully employed. I’ve hocked musical instruments and family heirlooms at Cash Converters to pay for my problem. I have the unsightly scabs of a regular high-heels wearer and the glazed eyes and RSI fingers of someone who spends too much time online scouring eBay and American Apparel.
I try to quit. Sometimes I can go for weeks without looking at trenderbender.com. But it never lasts. At some point I will slink off to my old haunts. The shop assistants will wave to me and greet me by name.
“Where have you been-” They ask me. They’ve got some new stuff in this week, cut in the UK. They think I might like it.
“No, no,” I beg off. “I’m just window-shopping. No money.” I turn out the empty pockets of my high-waisted, ash-grey stovepipes.
The salesgirl smiles. “Just take a little looksee at the Bakelite brooches we have in and this amazing 70s Italian pantsuit. “You’re so slim,” she purrs, “no one else has been able to fit into it.”
In the change room, I get a quick glimpse at my dilated pupils and flushed cheeks. I’m high as a kite on my clothing rush. But later, as I leave carrying some vintage Oroton and a darling little Please Louise skirt, I find myself muttering with grim resignation, “Just when I think I’m out, they pull me back in!”
Dear readers, you are warned.