RIP Heels? Not on my watch
“Sweatpants are a sign of defeat.” So said the late great Kaiser of Fashion himself , Karl Lagerfeld. Oh dear Karl, is that you I hear? Yes, yes indeed– sighing and tutting from your catwalk in they sky in abject disgust at what we have become. He goes on, “you lost control of your life, so you bought some sweatpants.”
Something like that, Karl. Something like that.
After a whole revolution around the Sun of unmatched slovenly-ness, which has successfully pushed to the extreme our inventive means of fashioning ‘loungewear’ (code for all things elasticated) consider us all, according to the sartorial diktats of the Kaiser, well and truly CONQUERED, indeed. Scrolling through anymore Insta-hits of ribbed pistachio palazzos, felty-fleece pullovers or bum-sucking, thigh slimming, NASA-grade leggings and I may slip into a clothing coma from which I shall struggle to wake.
These days one is more likely to spy a white tiger in Hyde Park than dapper chap in pinstripes. The Oxford shirt has become extinct and loafers are no longer a type of shoe but rather what we’ve all become in our living rooms. Shirtmakers TM Lewin have shuttered their shops, racks stand empty accompanied with sad flyers taped inside announcing that their dedicted staff remain ‘working from home’ to answer any and all customer service needs. (Note to all soon-to-be-teacher-assesssed- English A-Level takers, this is what we call IRONY.) More depressing, some have found it a chore to suffer any cling of cloth on the skin whatsoever. Why bother, eh? The incentive to groom died alongside the daily commute and office fling. Sigh… Rambling down my road (not spying, I swear) I eyeballed no fewer than three men hunched over their screens… topless. Let me clarify, not PHWOAR topless. Moobs out, ready for their SHAMELESS audition, topless. How I wish I were taking literary license. (Ok, maybe I am a bit. But not much) If there were any doubt, it’s now official- with every passing day of lockdown we are regressing as a species. Your challenge hence forth dear men– aim for a shirt, preferably one not donning the UnderArmour logo. Baby steps.
But despite these desperate times there is indeed a quiet revolution underway. Slow and steady, but a revolution no less. A block heel there, mini-skirt there and slash of red lippy peaking from those scummy, acne-inducing masks to brighten an otherwise most dreary February afternoon. The rebellion is well and truly begun. As usual, it’s us girls leading the fight against bad taste. We are strident; determined to snatch victory from the proverbial jaws. I started noticing it last week, be it prompted by a change in weather or general fed-uppiness with the mind-numbing monotony of perpetual dog walks in wellies clutching our artisan coffees (if we’re lucky enough to pry ourselves from shouty-Zoom calls or homeschooling ‘heaven’). But there amongst the Sweaty Betty, spandex- wrapped striders and puffer-jacket power walkers (guilty) were the brave few defying the drabness in faux fur, pleated skirts, jaunty fedoras and crimson lips. I even spied a woman in heels, PROPER HEELS and razor-sharp Balmain blazer just yesterday. Old school. Righteous.
It’s happening. The slow and steady resistance building steam with the march toward style, or something resembling what I remember as such. If like me, your wardrobe has been mocking you for nearly 365 days straight, now is time to silence it. If the thought of squeezing your trainer-flattened, collapsed-arches into stillettos (WTF) fills you with horror, low ankle boots are a good start. A-line skirts and tights won’t look amiss for your one-hour permitted slot for essentials. Elasticated joggers are EVERYWHERE, (sorry Karl) so maybe mix it up with a jacket from an old suit (remember those?) And another thing, slowly acclimate yourself back into jeans, breaking in a pair a week. Do it, and do it now, before it’s too late and we all succomb to the Covid-spread. Harness your inner diva, damn the consequences (or mud-soaked Common), because 21 June will roll around sooner than you think. (God willing.)
So here’s to all you heel-clackers, hat-donners, belt-cinchers and glossed glamazons. I raise thee an oatmilk- latte (pubs closed and all). Keep fighting the good fight. Never surrender to the lure of Lycra. The tide is turning, and I smell victory on the horizon. (Yes. It comes back.)
