The trouble with fashion is that certain pieces don’t always translate. The smooth long vowels of one language become jarred and awkward in another setting, and soon enough all that was great about a certain thing gets lost in what comes from being a slightly different you, in a very different place. As someone who moves around a fair amount, I am very aware of this. The yards of brown string and wooden beads, while perfectly fitting on a Kenyan beach, will lose any appeal under a grey London sky. London shoes are not Berlin shoes. A Parisian outfit in Cape Town will suddenly look overdone. And I know this. I really do. Which is why The Skirt has taken to a shelf since my return to London. In Berlin, The Skirt was in its element. It was a perfect piece. It solved all of my skirt dilemmas. I was absolutely content in my skirt wearing. Oh, how I loved that skirt. However, when I got back to London, something about The Skirt wasn’t quite right. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it, but something certainly was amiss. Some days I would put the skirt on, um and ah, and invariably, just before leaving the house, throw on an alternate leg covering instead. Needless to say, The Skirt hasn’t exactly been on centre stage since its Berlin heyday.
But last night, that all changed. I decided I was going to embrace the long lost love of said skirt. I wore it to work. Obviously, as it a SMALL skirt, made of LEATHER, one walks a fine line with it. Things that are not recommended as a pairing, unless Eastern Bloc Prostitute is the look one is trying to achieve: Stilettos, very low cut tops, extremely tight tops, any other form of leather clothing (not shoes, read: bustier, jacket, waistcoat, etc.) In light of this, I wore my skirt with a pair of light beige ankle boots, an oversized sailor striped t-shirt and my customary top knot. It’s a casual look. IT WAS CASUAL. Anyhow, happy enough that my skirt was back in the game, I picked up my record case, donned my fur coat and headed out the door. Now, in retrospect maybe the fur wasn’t the best idea, sartorially speaking. Maybe, when the casual sailor shirt was hidden under the hip length fur, the look was decidedly less..... dare I say casual again? But it was cold and it’s my warmest coat, so I wore it.
On my way to the bus stop, an SUV that was driving by slowed down and pulled up next to me. In the style of every bad film noir movie ever made, the driver’s window slid ominously down. In the car, two huge Russians leered at me. In Russian, they had a brief exchange. The driver leaned out of the window, his one arm reaching toward me. His lip curled. And then he asked the question that no girl ever, ever ever ever wants to be asked.
‘How Much?’
I literally stopped walking I was so shocked. Appalled even. Insulted. And a bit hurt. I could do nothing but gape. I didn’t even have a caustic remark, not even an acrid sound to defend myself. A few days ago, when I was having a particularly trying day, a drunk man on the tube made a snotty comment about my top knot, likening it to a pineapple on my head, and I actually hissed at him. What I would’ve given just then to find within myself the sharp, snake like sound that would be an all encompassing portrayal of my reaction to the question, the hiss that would not only say, ‘No, I am not a prostitute’ but would also convey the sentiments of ‘Fuck You Very Much.’ But no. There was no sound in me. Instead, I shut my mouth that had previously fallen agape, gave the driver a withering look and shook my head in bewilderment, mostly to myself. And on I continued to work, every so often looking down at The Skirt and berating its existence. ‘I thought we were in this together.’ I told it. ‘How can you betray me like that?’ And ‘It’s all your fault you know. If I had just left you at home and worn one of your more sensible wardrobe buddies that never would’ve happened.’ The Skirt said nothing. It didn’t even try and defend itself. So as far as it all goes, I don’t know if London is ready for The Skirt. Maybe it’s a Berlin thing after all.
Later that night, when I told Laura the story, in all the horror of being so easily mistaken for a prostitute, she linked her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. “On the bright side,” she said, “you look so hot that they wanted to pay to have sex with you.”
But last night, that all changed. I decided I was going to embrace the long lost love of said skirt. I wore it to work. Obviously, as it a SMALL skirt, made of LEATHER, one walks a fine line with it. Things that are not recommended as a pairing, unless Eastern Bloc Prostitute is the look one is trying to achieve: Stilettos, very low cut tops, extremely tight tops, any other form of leather clothing (not shoes, read: bustier, jacket, waistcoat, etc.) In light of this, I wore my skirt with a pair of light beige ankle boots, an oversized sailor striped t-shirt and my customary top knot. It’s a casual look. IT WAS CASUAL. Anyhow, happy enough that my skirt was back in the game, I picked up my record case, donned my fur coat and headed out the door. Now, in retrospect maybe the fur wasn’t the best idea, sartorially speaking. Maybe, when the casual sailor shirt was hidden under the hip length fur, the look was decidedly less..... dare I say casual again? But it was cold and it’s my warmest coat, so I wore it.
On my way to the bus stop, an SUV that was driving by slowed down and pulled up next to me. In the style of every bad film noir movie ever made, the driver’s window slid ominously down. In the car, two huge Russians leered at me. In Russian, they had a brief exchange. The driver leaned out of the window, his one arm reaching toward me. His lip curled. And then he asked the question that no girl ever, ever ever ever wants to be asked.
‘How Much?’
I literally stopped walking I was so shocked. Appalled even. Insulted. And a bit hurt. I could do nothing but gape. I didn’t even have a caustic remark, not even an acrid sound to defend myself. A few days ago, when I was having a particularly trying day, a drunk man on the tube made a snotty comment about my top knot, likening it to a pineapple on my head, and I actually hissed at him. What I would’ve given just then to find within myself the sharp, snake like sound that would be an all encompassing portrayal of my reaction to the question, the hiss that would not only say, ‘No, I am not a prostitute’ but would also convey the sentiments of ‘Fuck You Very Much.’ But no. There was no sound in me. Instead, I shut my mouth that had previously fallen agape, gave the driver a withering look and shook my head in bewilderment, mostly to myself. And on I continued to work, every so often looking down at The Skirt and berating its existence. ‘I thought we were in this together.’ I told it. ‘How can you betray me like that?’ And ‘It’s all your fault you know. If I had just left you at home and worn one of your more sensible wardrobe buddies that never would’ve happened.’ The Skirt said nothing. It didn’t even try and defend itself. So as far as it all goes, I don’t know if London is ready for The Skirt. Maybe it’s a Berlin thing after all.
Later that night, when I told Laura the story, in all the horror of being so easily mistaken for a prostitute, she linked her arm around my waist and rested her head on my shoulder. “On the bright side,” she said, “you look so hot that they wanted to pay to have sex with you.”
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