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The first step to solving a problem...
Apr. 23rd, 2015 10:42 pmHello everyone. My name is Ambrosia, and I like fashionable clothes.
I came at this from an unusual path. My mother taught me to dress professionally, like any good second-wave feminist, but past that she was more or less clueless about fashion while I was growing up. Furthermore, I lived in Alaska, which is about as far from trend-setting as you can get when it comes to fashion. (It is, however, a marvellous place if you want to learn about practical clothing that'll protect you from the elements.) I proceeded to spend much of my socially-awkward youth suffering insults from the well-dressed girls at my school; thus, for many years I rejected the concept of style altogether, both as a means of defense and for fear of being identified as someone similarly heartless. Throughout my teens, I would loudly declaim that anyone who paid triple price for a pair of jeans that had a popular logo on the button were clearly idiots. As I grew older and more aware of global manufacturing trends, I would declaim on the topic of sweatshops or the vapidity and misogyny inherent to the fashion industry. I certainly wouldn't have been caught dead in anything with a designer label.
But, slowly, the little things added up. I shopped for lingerie and corsetry online in college; it wasn't trendy, so that was okay, right? One of my favorite movies in the mid-2000s was The Devil Wears Prada; I told myself it was for the performances. I would occasionally glance through a Vogue or a Vanity Fair in a waiting room somewhere (though of course I'd never be seen dead with a subscription); mostly it was just to laugh at the prices, but now and then a particular outfit would catch my eye and I might sigh a little before my name was called and I put the magazine away.
For a long time, I buried myself in fiction and research and other improving literature, hoping to prove that my occasional desires were an aberration. But with the advent of the Internet, with the ability to flip at any time to The Sartorialist or Humans of New York, my interest grew difficult to deny. Why did people wear the things they wear? What worked for them, what didn't? How much of an outfit's allure (or lack thereof) was its construction, and how much the confidence of the wearer?
Then I started dyeing my hair bright colors. At first it was a lark, as much about standing out as a fashion statement; I lived in rural Arizona, after all, and fashion wasn't precisely a high priority in my community. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that if I was going to stand out, I should make it work to my advantage - which meant looking like I knew what I was doing. So I invested in hairstyling products, and regular trips to the hairdresser. And, as my hair looked better, I started thinking that perhaps I should do something about my clothing, too.
Now I live in a city, with a spouse who makes enough money to comfortably buy expensive clothes every now and then, and who has better taste than I do, to boot. And, slowly, I've been admitting to myself that I like looking well-put-together. I enjoy figuring out a killer outfit and wearing it around. I even like shopping, which I used to think of as a chore; there's an almost physical thrill to finding that one perfect piece that completes the outfit you've been dying to wear.
There's still a lot wrong with the fashion game. The industry's dependence on sweatshop labor is concerning; the broad assumption that every woman, simply because of her gender, must participate or be judged lacking is downright regressive. And I remain troubled by the way clothing is so often used as a means of class and tribal separation; a person should not be judged to be of lesser quality simply because they don't care to spend the money and time required to dress fashionably (or of lesser intelligence because they do).
So here's my promise, to myself and to you. If you see me walking down the street in my expensive clothes, and you greet me, I will greet you back with the same level of warmth. My clothes are for me, because I like them; if you like them too, great! And if not, or if you don't care at all, that's fine too. Just as I wouldn't judge someone for liking different movies from me, I won't judge you for your taste in clothing (or lack of caring about it). There are so many other amazing things in this world worth talking about, at length.
And in return, I'm going to stop feeling vaguely guilty about all the compliments I'm getting on my new Michael Kors jacket. Because it looks awesome.
I came at this from an unusual path. My mother taught me to dress professionally, like any good second-wave feminist, but past that she was more or less clueless about fashion while I was growing up. Furthermore, I lived in Alaska, which is about as far from trend-setting as you can get when it comes to fashion. (It is, however, a marvellous place if you want to learn about practical clothing that'll protect you from the elements.) I proceeded to spend much of my socially-awkward youth suffering insults from the well-dressed girls at my school; thus, for many years I rejected the concept of style altogether, both as a means of defense and for fear of being identified as someone similarly heartless. Throughout my teens, I would loudly declaim that anyone who paid triple price for a pair of jeans that had a popular logo on the button were clearly idiots. As I grew older and more aware of global manufacturing trends, I would declaim on the topic of sweatshops or the vapidity and misogyny inherent to the fashion industry. I certainly wouldn't have been caught dead in anything with a designer label.
But, slowly, the little things added up. I shopped for lingerie and corsetry online in college; it wasn't trendy, so that was okay, right? One of my favorite movies in the mid-2000s was The Devil Wears Prada; I told myself it was for the performances. I would occasionally glance through a Vogue or a Vanity Fair in a waiting room somewhere (though of course I'd never be seen dead with a subscription); mostly it was just to laugh at the prices, but now and then a particular outfit would catch my eye and I might sigh a little before my name was called and I put the magazine away.
For a long time, I buried myself in fiction and research and other improving literature, hoping to prove that my occasional desires were an aberration. But with the advent of the Internet, with the ability to flip at any time to The Sartorialist or Humans of New York, my interest grew difficult to deny. Why did people wear the things they wear? What worked for them, what didn't? How much of an outfit's allure (or lack thereof) was its construction, and how much the confidence of the wearer?
Then I started dyeing my hair bright colors. At first it was a lark, as much about standing out as a fashion statement; I lived in rural Arizona, after all, and fashion wasn't precisely a high priority in my community. Still, I couldn't shake the feeling that if I was going to stand out, I should make it work to my advantage - which meant looking like I knew what I was doing. So I invested in hairstyling products, and regular trips to the hairdresser. And, as my hair looked better, I started thinking that perhaps I should do something about my clothing, too.
Now I live in a city, with a spouse who makes enough money to comfortably buy expensive clothes every now and then, and who has better taste than I do, to boot. And, slowly, I've been admitting to myself that I like looking well-put-together. I enjoy figuring out a killer outfit and wearing it around. I even like shopping, which I used to think of as a chore; there's an almost physical thrill to finding that one perfect piece that completes the outfit you've been dying to wear.
There's still a lot wrong with the fashion game. The industry's dependence on sweatshop labor is concerning; the broad assumption that every woman, simply because of her gender, must participate or be judged lacking is downright regressive. And I remain troubled by the way clothing is so often used as a means of class and tribal separation; a person should not be judged to be of lesser quality simply because they don't care to spend the money and time required to dress fashionably (or of lesser intelligence because they do).
So here's my promise, to myself and to you. If you see me walking down the street in my expensive clothes, and you greet me, I will greet you back with the same level of warmth. My clothes are for me, because I like them; if you like them too, great! And if not, or if you don't care at all, that's fine too. Just as I wouldn't judge someone for liking different movies from me, I won't judge you for your taste in clothing (or lack of caring about it). There are so many other amazing things in this world worth talking about, at length.
And in return, I'm going to stop feeling vaguely guilty about all the compliments I'm getting on my new Michael Kors jacket. Because it looks awesome.
