Communist Party (Party)...
... Is one of the best party related puns I've heard all year, so of course I'm going. Like the teenage werewolf party of yesteryear, this poses me with the same dilemma. Fake hair. To wear or not to wear?
It's either that or go as Gloria Steinem or Patty Hearst. The hope of all the girls is that they'll be chatted up by that icon of cool, Che Guevara, as opposed to a hairy Stalin or a Mao.
Fake hair and military cuts aside, the key accessory is going to have to be the totalitarian persona. And this got me thinking. As I write, I am recovering from a hectic week of goodbye* dinner dates and impromptu partybashes, so I'm feeling a little run down - I still have glitter eye make-up fading around my eyelids - as such I've decided that today is a day for not leaving the flat and drinking jasmine tea. That being so, I am wearing a jumper my grandad had intended to throw out way back in 1983 but thankfully never quite got round to doing, and a pair of my old ballet shoes. Why is that? And why would I be in no way embarrassed to duck round to the store for ice-cream or run into one of my exes?
The ballet shoes, aside from being frightfully in fashion, are real. I wore them for Swan Lake, and they're battered and worn and terribly comfy and oh-so beautiful. They make me feel very pretty. The jumper, however, considerably less so. It's a fading grey colour, and comes down well towards my knees. Pretty is not how it makes me feel; cute, though, might just sum it up. I am a hopeless fashion victim. And by that I mean, I can people watch for hours, perfectly content to just let the cut and colour of their clothing choice wash over me. What is with that?
Nothing is quite so cool right now as sporting a £100 pair of shades that remind one of nothing so much as those glasses your grandmother wore, complete with neck cord, and a jumper that should have been consigned to the bin well before the time of David Blunkett's first resignation. Everybody looks a bit silly when they do retro. Everybody. But there's nothing cooler than looking like you're slumming it a little; in a conscious fashion, that is. When I do get round to leaving the flat later today, I shall don a head scarf and a smidgen of lip gloss. My pink nail polish accidentally matches the shoes, and I am wearing leggings.
Leggings. I ask you.
I know. But. I have a much lower level of scepticism for leggings than I do skinny jeans.
And now for the twee ending. The real accessory for all of this? Confidence. Confidence is totally cool.
* More on which later.
It's either that or go as Gloria Steinem or Patty Hearst. The hope of all the girls is that they'll be chatted up by that icon of cool, Che Guevara, as opposed to a hairy Stalin or a Mao.
Fake hair and military cuts aside, the key accessory is going to have to be the totalitarian persona. And this got me thinking. As I write, I am recovering from a hectic week of goodbye* dinner dates and impromptu partybashes, so I'm feeling a little run down - I still have glitter eye make-up fading around my eyelids - as such I've decided that today is a day for not leaving the flat and drinking jasmine tea. That being so, I am wearing a jumper my grandad had intended to throw out way back in 1983 but thankfully never quite got round to doing, and a pair of my old ballet shoes. Why is that? And why would I be in no way embarrassed to duck round to the store for ice-cream or run into one of my exes?
The ballet shoes, aside from being frightfully in fashion, are real. I wore them for Swan Lake, and they're battered and worn and terribly comfy and oh-so beautiful. They make me feel very pretty. The jumper, however, considerably less so. It's a fading grey colour, and comes down well towards my knees. Pretty is not how it makes me feel; cute, though, might just sum it up. I am a hopeless fashion victim. And by that I mean, I can people watch for hours, perfectly content to just let the cut and colour of their clothing choice wash over me. What is with that?
Nothing is quite so cool right now as sporting a £100 pair of shades that remind one of nothing so much as those glasses your grandmother wore, complete with neck cord, and a jumper that should have been consigned to the bin well before the time of David Blunkett's first resignation. Everybody looks a bit silly when they do retro. Everybody. But there's nothing cooler than looking like you're slumming it a little; in a conscious fashion, that is. When I do get round to leaving the flat later today, I shall don a head scarf and a smidgen of lip gloss. My pink nail polish accidentally matches the shoes, and I am wearing leggings.
Leggings. I ask you.
I know. But. I have a much lower level of scepticism for leggings than I do skinny jeans.
And now for the twee ending. The real accessory for all of this? Confidence. Confidence is totally cool.
* More on which later.
Labels: High jinks
posted by Imogen @ 12:30 pm
1 Comments:
At 27 March, 2007 06:04 ,
Anonymous said...
hmmm do tell!
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