I have always been confident that I possessed style, even as I acknowledged that other people were sometimes wont to wonder what the hell I was wearing, and even the ones who might admire my clothes wouldn’t always immediately cry, “stylish!” (although sometimes they would).
Fashion is interesting to me as an art form, and as a way of seeing what will be available to me in terms of colours and shapes, but I don’t wait breathlessly to rush off and buy the latest trends. Actually, I am notoriously slow to adopt trends, and often start off vehemently opposed to them, until they stick around for a few years, when I embrace them enthusiastically, as they slide into oblivion. Style, as a form of expression, is interesting to me. I notice people who dress as though they are interested in clothes, even if their taste is not mine.
So it was surprising to me that when I decided to overhaul my wardrobe, when I started thinking about what my new, more grown-up, self-expressing wardrobe might look like, I just threw myself down an angsty, self-obsessed, pseudo-existentialist, questioning, rabbit hole. But to to be honest, that is my idea of fun, so I’m not complaining.