Baggy shirt. Grey sweatshirt. Cropped flares. Cap. Clunky boots that make my feet look a bit like black hooves. Yes, this well and truly is a formula for serious man-repelling style.
Let’s imagine something, just for fun.
Imagine living in a world where men controlled everything women did, from what we did, ate, and what we wore. What would that world look like? Well, it might look as though Hugh Hefner had opened the gates to the Playboy Mansion, letting all of his bunnies free, with half of the global population clad in mini skirts, crotchless underwear and heels high enough to render a severe case of vertigo in any well-seasoned mountain climber. Sound like the modern girl’s form of the apocalypse, no? Thankfully, we don’t live in such a world. Hugh Hefner’s bunnies are sadly kept well within the confines of their cage and after our mothers stopped dressing us in outfits that matched our siblings, we have been free to wear whatever the hell we want. Yay for sartorial freedom.
Yet that still doesn’t stop messages from male friends sliding into my inbox with sly quips at some of my less-than-standardly stereotypically feminine outfits. Or a few raised eyebrows. Or catty snapchats. Heavens forbid I don dungarees in favour of a dress.
A quick scroll through my tagged photographs on Facebook would pinpoint exactly when I started – and stopped – genuinely giving any consideration to what men think of my sartorial choices. It starts during my first Christmas at university, with a cringe-worthy outfit consisting most notably of an Ann Summers tutu that I wore to Carnage (Do you remember Carnage nights? – If yes, you weren’t doing it right…) And the stint ends with a photo of me captured going out-out wearing leggings and a baggy jumper (a cosy, boozy pub lunch took a very wrong turn that day…)