How a disastrous fashion faux pas sparked my journey of sartorial discovery
I blame the blue angora jumper. It looked so perfect in the store. I’d landed my dream job, writing for a top fashion magazine and I needed a new outfit for my first team meeting with my new colleagues. These were the women who told everyone else what to wear, and looking the part was just as important as doing a great job. Pastels were having a moment so the icy blue felt right. Angora gave a nod to texture. Paired with tailored black pants and high heels, the look seemed on-trend yet classic.
The meeting was at the editorial director’s home. Her elegant living room was decorated in muted neutrals with art books piled just so on the coffee table. I smiled at the small group of chic women as I entered. They looked at me with polite friendly interest but nothing more.
It wasn’t long after I sank into the biscuit- coloured sofa that I realised my jumper was shedding. Pale blue fibres gathered in clusters on my black pants and on the editorial director’s sofa. I leant forward gingerly and lifted my legs away from the seat. The woman next to me smiled and edged away. Someone was doing a presentation but I didn’t hear a word. What to do? Can’t stand up. Can’t take jumper off. Nonchalantly I tried to pick off a few fibres. It was like trying to catch sand. And what to do with the fibres once they were in my hand?
When we broke for lunch, I waited until last to stand up. A faint outline was etched in blue on the sofa behind me. I tugged the jumper over the waves of blue fibres descending down my black trousers and tried not to rub against anything. When I returned to the same spot after lunch, I noticed my neighbour had chosen somewhere else to sit. It was a very long afternoon.
No one ever mentioned the blue angora jumper. I almost wished they had, so we could all laugh about it. Instead I had the terror. The terror of getting it right from then on – every single day.
I observed my colleagues with awe, covertly noting their shoes, their bags, the length of their hems. I watched as they rifled through an overloaded garment rail to snatch a limp, weirdly cropped dress that would somehow transform a gangly teenage model into a show stopper. Only they could pair a neon orange skirt with a turquoise top and pink heels and make it work. Only they could cast an eye over a rainbow of cashmere jumpers and pluck out the one perfect shade.
They excelled at their own style. Each had a distinct look: one surely owned all of Lauren Hutton’s American Gigolo outfits. The fashion director alternated between a sexy Carine Roitfeld vibe and Emmanuelle Alt’s Parisian street style. And then there was The Magician, who could throw colourful clashing prints together with elan.
Every day was a glorious parade for these rare birds. “J’adore” was the ultimate compliment; silence the sign that perhaps you had missed the mark. They were smart, generous women, but fashion was their native language and they couldn’t help but wince at a mispronunciation.
Until that point I’d stuck to boring workday basics for simplicity’s sake. I once spent a year alternating two pairs of black pants with four white shirts, with a blue one thrown in for variety. Now I had to be fabulous. And fast.
I made countless mistakes trying to figure it out; underdressing, overdressing. The voluminous milkmaid skirt looked silly, the black polyester suit appropriate if I worked in accounts and that Yugoslavian peasant blouse would have been spot on – in 1997.
On a memorable fashion shoot in Africa, the fashion director sported Equipment shirts, slim-fitting khaki pants and a wide- brimmed olive felt hat, throwing on the local kikoy scarf to protect herself from the elements. My navy-blue baseball cap looked touristy, my black jeans were too hot by midday, my hoodies more appropriate for Brooklyn than Botswana and my patent leather ballet flats were soon covered in dust.
Every day was a glorious parade for these rare birds. ‘ J’adore’ was the ultimate compliment; silence the sign that perhaps you had missed the mark
Occasionally I got it right. A cream blouse with antique lace edging won two J’adores. I secretly swelled with pride when my editor commented on my military-style jacket. And when one of the fashion editors noted my Coco Chanel reference on the day I piled countless strands of pearls onto a black jumper, I felt I’d passed a secret test.
Sensing my confusion, one of the editors took me under her wing. Think about which character you are each day, she said. Perhaps a Russian ballerina going for a walk in Central Park? Or Alice in Wonderland working in an investment bank. I nodded. This might have worked for her, but it took me even longer to dress each morning. And there was never anyone other than a writer hiding in my cupboard.
Other offices have sales forecasts, we had seasonal trend forecasts; which Hitchcockian beauty was au courant, whether borrowing from the boys was acceptable and which dress was so “It”, it was out.
They taught me numerous lessons: always roll clothes when packing, there’s always room for another crisp white shirt, a lint roller is your best friend and $3,000 is a reasonable price for a Balenciaga biker jacket. They were generous with press-sale invitations and they’d share secret addresses.
Slowly I understood. Style is not about fitting in at all, it’s about being who you are and wearing what makes you feel good.
I had let the clothes wear me. Instead I had to figure out the colours and shapes that worked for me. In came tailored trousers, sharp blazers and cashmere jumpers (never again would I wear angora). Out went the crazy floral dress that would work on The Magician but not me.
Having this go-to formula made life easier and less cringe-inducing. And even though I didn’t often get a J’adore, I know my fashion colleagues approved.
First published in Elle Australia in September 2013 as Women in Uniform
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