There are three great certainties in life: death, taxes and inaccurate sizing labels in your clothes.
The latter was my greatest frenemy: A fictious figure I once worshipped like fact. A non-regulated number I left in my clothes forever keeping me in my place and reminding me of how I ‘fitted’ into society. It lightens up promise.
Across Europe the high-street is probably the worst size lottery you’ll ever step your wearisome foot in. Everyday when I’m shooting, sharing and summarising my outfits I’m regularly asked {usually on insta} whether I sized up sized down or just felt sorry I got involved. *I’m convinced size labels of clothes were the silent assassin in my very fraught body-dysmorphic twenties.
But alas. Not one to let the bastards grind me down. I now play by my own rules and I ignore those non-regulated, fake-news fascist labels lining my clothes. I rip them out and I forget about them. Ignore “but you need them as a guideline” trust me you don’t.
Imagine that – I don’t have ‘a size’? It’s an abstract concept granted, but I haven’t looked back.
What size is this blazer? All this size talk I bet you’re wondering. Well the truth is I don’t know. It was the biggest one on the rail but Mr. Luxe can’t get his arm into it so I know it’s not huge.
What about the dress it looks too body-con to just ‘wing it’? Wrong, I ordered it online in a medium and it fitted, but it’s loose so maybe I could have gone smaller or maybe get it tailored but actually there’s something quite comforting about a loose fitting dress that makes me want to finish my spag bol and maybe that’s a good thing.
I even made up some no-label rules in my head and here they are in print: THE RULES
-Be more like Goldilocks: I eyeball clothes in-store and pull two or three of the same pieces in different ‘supposed’ sizes. I know i’m looking for the ‘perfect fit’ but once I try them all on it’s not unusual for me to ask to try a couple more from the stock room just to be sure. I’m quite irritating really.
-Borrow from the boys: I regularly take Topman pieces into my Topshop changing room or switch floors in Selfridges to pull shirts and blazers from the mens floor. God that’s quite irritating too. From the top of the fashion chain – Balenciaga, Maison Margiela, Saint Laurent – are fuelling a very gender fluid silhouette so THEY made me do it.
-The Full Monty: I try pieces on with nothing else. I stand there naked and I look at it in all it’s glory. I ask myself in the mirror “how does this make me feel?”. This might save you a small fortune to start with – tbf not a lot of things hanging on my body in isolation look so great I find – but what can initially feel quite terrifying has helped give me the critical eye I need to look at things in a more considered and practical way. And stop buying shit that doesn’t really fit.
Crazy maybe, a bizarre coping mechanism definitely. I just figure I know myself best. Would actually love any thoughts on this?
L x
Weaaring
90’s SLIP DRESS: RAT & BOA
BLAZER: MANGO
SHOES: BALENCIAGA
BAG: DIOR
SUNGLASSES: GUCCI
photos: MR. LUXE
All words, ideas and awkward posing my own. Shot in Amsterdam when it was cold but not too cold. L x