What Style Means to Me

Twirling around watching the tiered ruffles rise and fall with the movement, I should’ve known then. This was the beginning of a serious love affair.

It was my First Holy Communion. I was six. And like so many landmark events, it was all about the dress.

I had a knee-length frilly tiered lace one, accessorised with fresh flowers in my hair. Natch.

Fast forward almost twenty years and open the doors of my wardrobe and behold: rails of garish ra-ra mini skirts, dresses and tops held together by delicate lace and the frilliest of frilliest French knickers.

The ties are clear. A tomboy through and through, this dress was the catalyst for a different side of me to emerge. A side expressed through style. Albeit, at this time, only at very special occasions.

Today, every time I wear a dress or skirt, my mother sighs with a defeated sadness, “And you’d never wear them for me…”

On an everyday basis, I was a jeans, t-shirt and trainers girl. A girl who rejected all the pretty dresses she was given, the dresses she now wishes she had in adult sizes.

There was the black velvet one with the round collar and red ribbon tied in a bow. There was the blue floral tulip dress and the ultimate! A ruched navy cord mini with a white blouse tucked in, topped off with a navy beret.

If I could time travel and wear these outfits every day, I would. But failing this, I relive the fabrics, textures and colours in my adult wardrobe.

As a tomboy in childhood and teenage years, jeans and t-shirts won out. Throughout teenage wilderness, like everyone, a personal style began to develop as a means of sharing my identity with the world.

Cue band t-shirts that screamed: “Hey look at me! I like this band. I got it at their gig. Do you like this band? Do you think they’re cool? Do you think I’m cool?”

A teenage diary reveals in the most cringeworthy manner, titled and swirled with glitter, a ‘1999 Style File’, which listed the fashion items of my desire - complete with magazine cuttings.

Objects of desire included: anything by Coca Cola ware, anything Paul Frank or Hello Kitty branded, stripy socks, tartan, band patches and band badges.

Embarrasing? Yes. Mostly. But saying that, my love of tartan lives on. A love lived vicariously through D&G’s autumn/winter 08 family of tartan campaign and perennially in Vivienne Westwood’s collections.

These days my wardrobe has plenty of space to accommodate new things, following ‘The Great Wardrobe Cull of 2009’.

The cull was a sort of cleansing event that happened this summer. After leaving college I decided that it was time to weed out the laddered tights, the tight band t-shirts and baggy skater jeans of my youth.

According to ‘the rules’ espoused by all fashion editors, anything that hadn’t been worn in two years was ruthlessly put in a black bag for the charity shop, ready to be loved again.

Like so many love affairs, it wasn’t that I stopped loving them; just we’d grown apart over the years.

It was a painful experience, but necessary for the long term.

An obsessive mental listing had begun in my head of the key items that it seems are absolutely necessary to function in society.

Firstly, two designer blazers (one navy, one black) were acquired from charity shop rummaging; a good white shirt was enlisted alongside high waisted skirts, plain t-shirts, converse trainers, gladiators, classic green Hunters, a cashmere cardi, a Breton top, Wolford tights, skinny jeans and city shorts.

A pretty safe bunch I admit, but a penchant for the silly and travel helps to inject some personality.

Chavvy dress jewellery, detachable bows that surface everywhere – Hair! Dresses! Collars!, old lady earrings, outrageous nail polish colours and chunky bracelets add a personal touch to the reliable staples.

Items found whilst travelling carry extra value, for their rarity and also for the pomp of saying, “Oh this old thing? I picked it up in Ibiza’s hippie market/Marrakesh/SoHo (delete where applicable) last month.” So very smug.

These little one-offs highlight the simple truth that style is inherently personal.

Clothes are beyond function, they signify something about us to the world. It is how people choose to channel these signs through personal style that sparks my interest.

I love people watching in all social settings, the variety in the way people present themselves through posture, clothes, make-up and hair never ceases to fascinate me.

I live this voyeurism virtually through beautiful style blogs like Garance Doré and Liebe Marlene, escapist magazines, and through the influx of TV shows and films that seem to centre specifically on fashion. Gossip Girl is my ‘clothes porn’ du jour.

Growing up, style was a means of forging a sense of identity, but mid-twenties (and somewhat grown-up) the meaning of style has changed.

As responsibilities gather, style seems to becoming more fun. In your twenties, you have the confidence to take a few risks, with good and bad results - harem pants anyone?

Mostly the meaning of style for me, correlates to memories. The dress I wore to my sister’s wedding, the heels I tripped up on at my graduation, the dresses from my childhood are all snapshots of the past and some just can’t be parted with.

Ok, so I admit I wasn’t completely ruthless… I still sleep in a faded Metallica t-shirt. So sue me.