Monday, March 19, 2012

A Fine Line- The Art of Classy Dress; A Prelude

Ok, let me start by saying that I have never been accused of dressing like a, for lack of a better word, ‘slut’. That isn’t to say that I haven’t had a few close calls.

Like my Forever New sheer blouse that conveniently lost its top button and somewhat exposed my cleavage in Hyde Park.

And what about my wardrobe malfunction when my cropped tee and low rise jeans quite unpleasantly ‘leaked’ the satin ribbon of my knickers?

Perhaps I should point out (for the preservation of my own dignity mostly) that the aforementioned exhibits were isolated incidents and that I do not leave the house unless all is in order. I do wish that I could say the same for certain individuals who for the preservation of their dignity will not be named.

It is at this point that I will paint a picture, and you dear reader can decide whether I am a genius, or simply bonkers.

The item in question is (drum roll please):

• Blood Red Suede Platform Boots.

Yes, the rest of the outfit was, well, pretty average (albeit badly tailored, doing nothing for the wearer) but those boots scream Hillbrow and the corner of Church Street right?

Wrong. I have learnt over the years that the clothes mean very little in comparison to what the wearer can do for the clothes. There are times when a woman’s discomfort in her clothes quite blatantly robs her of any confidence and undermines the best qualities of the clothing. This fact (and I say fact because even the most beautifully made item is worth very little, if not nothing without a confident and complimentary model) leads me to the first part of my theory.

PLEASE NOTE: The rest of this theory will be the subject of posts to come.

[dons white lab coat]

Your personality has the potential to screw up any outfit. As long as you act like a piece of trash, your clothes will always portray nothing more than a low-esteemed dustbin.

Leather can make a woman look like a fashion rebel (good thing by the way) but if you look like you have a hangover, slouch, and/or walk with your legs spread, you will look- at best- like a time-travelling metal groupie.

And honey, those bright red boots would look so damn good on me; it just looks a little, suggestive on you.

Don’t blame it on the boots people, blame it on the suggestive gait, the provocative drawl, but God forbid, don’t blame it on the red suede.

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