Suede + Slouch + Style
on bags, CBK, getting older, and other things...
Eating a cookie for late breakfast at 11:47 this “morning” begging myself to find even an ounce of an idea to write about.
I’m hoping, paired with a cappuccino, that the sugar and caffeine will rush straight to the part of my brain that slow-releases Substack topics every now and then and give it a good kick.
This might end up as a train of thought. I hope you have a ticket to ride.
I’m starting here with an enamouring image full of so much texture that I just want to reach into the photo and write words into the fabric. I want to run my hand across it to the right and feel the slight friction of push back when I swipe back left, the beige shifting dark and then light again.
The bag is too big. So it’s just right. Enough space for all the porridge Goldilocks desires.
It’s like carrying a pillow onto a plane. Something I’ve never done because I’m saving it for the inevitable private flight in my future.
Slouch has been on my mind as of late. Suede holds a permanent residency.
Being a woman is never casual but we can make it look so. It’s an art. Suede and slouch belong to us in their natural states of dressed-up rest.
A fur coat projects what we observe as something so-money-very-fancy. But wrapped in one we are only one soft belt away from a dressing gown.
People do not get to rest as much as they were designed to. So we seek out relaxed forms of luxury, like soft leather with developed creases that show its favourite shape in which to sit.
This week I had believed I wanted a structured, small, neat leather bag to perch on my shoulder with only a slight possibility of softening up in a few years. But in life there are always surprises that show you what you thought you wanted is not what you needed. Call it divine intervention of the materialistic kind or mere accident, but I have ended up with the bigger version; less structured, softer and suede-lined. Enough room for all the notebooks I need to adequately declare my love for both suede and slouch.
It sits on my shoulder and sinks a little in the middle like it knows I need a perch for my elbow every now and then. I could wear it with my smartest jacket or my plaid pyjamas, and I have done the latter. Maybe the real test of whether you should keep a bag is if it looks good with your pyjamas.
All my mum had to say was that it would suit me in New York if I ever get to return. Then it was a done deal.
In the recent resurgence of Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy’s personal style, that barely had a moment of peace, thanks to the new Love Story show, I implore you not to lose sight of what you like. Her style was immaculate and simple and refreshingly wearable but it’s not because of a black t-shirt that you can buy today for $60 from Petit Bateau. It’s because of her. It was true to her. And she was a notable person underneath it. We only know this because of her public presence. You don’t need anyone to discuss you, sometimes unabashedly, like a chapter in a history book in order to be a notable person.
When you look in the mirror and realise oh shit this looks so good! I look so good in this! it’s because of you.
By all means wear a sleeveless black tank with a kick flare jean and a patent Prada bag if you want, but don’t do it to look like someone else. Don’t attempt to call in the “it girl” mystery of a woman who deserves to rest after evident suffering by wearing her style like a costume.
Don’t get me wrong, I love her style. I loved reading about her too-short life and her work at Calvin Klein and how she reportedly treated people with an essence that you can’t fake. I, myself, own many plain t-shirts and wear them often but I also love lots of jewellery. I can’t go out without my earrings in. I like audaciously mixing patterns that do not match. I adore being overdressed. And rightfully so because we are not the same. None of us are and we shouldn’t be. We’d hate that.
Of course, share your similarities but please don’t lose sight of to where and what you are drawn and pulled because of who you are. In the flurry of the internet’s collective herd (that belongs to no one) enjoy the grass you’re on because when we all eventually look like each other, we’ll wish someone had done something different to inspire us next.
I dare you to make your idea of an ugly outfit look good.
Do they say change your brows, change your life? Or is that only applicable to hair?
I’m getting my hair cut this weekend. A long overdue appointment and I really can’t wait to have some of this auburn weight lifted. I’m sure my scalp feels the same. I don’t venture far from my go-to ask: long layers, face framing, texture, no clean cut, blow dried not curly but not straight. I return to myself every time I drop just under £100 on the cut.
I am scared to get my brows done but I feel that it may be time for a change. The idea of sitting in the middle of a shopping mall with two threads intricately pulling hairs from follicles is mortifying. Surely I’ll cry from the sharp consecutive pain and onlookers will have that image of me burned into their mind’s eye in passing. But do I trust myself to shape and trim them in the bathroom mirror? I’m not sure anyone has a steady enough hand I can rely on.
My skin is doing something weird and new where small red blemishes sit on my already British flushed cheeks. At this point I think it does more good to not think about it. Pay it no attention and it’ll stop, like a drunkard shouting from across the street. Just keep walking.
At a time like this it seems weird to have dreams of getting older, not least because the future is less promised than I’ve ever felt before.
But I think about it often. Nearly as much as I linger on thoughts of death, dying, and what comes next that can’t possibly be fathomed as anything man or mind-made. Not in a dark, melancholy, sad way. It’s always a thought bathed in light and curiosity and fondness for those who already know.
My mum asks me if she’s too old to wear a semi-sheer top. I hadn't questioned for a second that she might think this. I just bought her it because it looked like how she dresses in my memories of her; in my many photos of her; my understanding of her wardrobe at home.
Women return bags of clothes to the cash desk where I work because they’re “too old” for the clothes they’d seen, loved, and chosen. They say they’re “too fat” for the size they thought would fit. I don’t know these women personally, but when words like this leave their mouths I feel like we’ve met before in our experience of being women with women bodies and our endless battle with mass-produced clothing designed for no one. Like we must always adapt to fit instead of ask more to fit us.
I often tell them, “it’s definitely not you, it’s the clothes” or “no two sizes fit the same”. Nine times out of ten they say thank you and my heart breaks. Most times I wish I could convince them that they should still buy the clothes they love regardless of their time spent wading through life on earth.
I will always be my mother’s daughter as she is still her mother’s. I will be myself of course but I will always be that too, even when I’m older. But I will dress how I want, how I love, and expect no one to assume my age and any concept of what it means to be “appropriate”. I think we’re a long way past being appropriate women.
Mind your business and let me get dressed.
Thank you for reading whatever this was.
See you soon.
I’m thinking a birthday diary is on the way as I get a year older tomorrow…
If I don’t say it enough, thanks for being here.