Material
Clothing never mattered until other people started caring for me. First, my new stepsisters took me shopping, most likely for their own amusement. After them, I essentially modelled a close friend’s vision. She’d tell me where to go, what to buy, and how to put it together in an outfit. I obliged; after all, it removed the uncertainty of choice. Truthfully, I also enjoyed the attention.
It wasn’t all positive, though. My attire was once so outrageous that my stepmum asked me if I was attending a fancy-dress party. The thing is, it was hard to defend my choices when they weren’t my own. That quickly changed.
My new flatmates at university didn’t take long to form a posh boy persona based on my preppy aesthetic and accent. Though, it never felt authentic. I’d moved to the other side of the country to get away from that kind of person, so why hold onto any semblance of their appearance?
It’s not like I hadn’t been dressing myself, but this intentional shift in aesthetic made me realise how little influence I’d had on my look to that point. Suddenly, I was on my own, and it took a moment to find my feet. My ripped, ice-white skinny jeans may be gone, but my friends have not forgotten.
Fast-forward, and by the time I’d left university, I was feeling comfortable in my own clothes. I’ve always appreciated style in others, recognising that clothing can cause confidence, and an aesthetic becomes aura. It’s in our subconscious. It’s why, before anyone even speaks in a movie, you can differentiate good from evil by what they wear alone.
While we all notice, some people simply don’t care. My stepdad may be intentionally ignorant of his appearance, but I admire his decisiveness in getting dressed — whatever is clean will do. I’d struggle to do the same and not feel like I was being stared at by every onlooker. If you’re going to feel like you’re being watched, at least give them something to look at.
On reflection, it’s unlikely everyone’s looking in my direction. I’d be surprised if anyone were; our lives consume us. But when it comes to analysing our behaviour, nothing manifests introspection like isolation, and for me, lockdown felt like an exposure of my relationship with clothing. My thirst for new attire was insatiable; it was just a shame nobody could see.
Trapped in the countryside, with no amusement other than the outdoors, I scrolled, saved, and browsed every outlet I admired. Shoeboxes arrived, followed by sweatshirts and jackets. Who cares if it’s July?
My mother isn’t one to bite her tongue. Every other day, she’d watch me with one eyebrow raised as I’d open another parcel, each time asking how much this one had cost. At that moment, I thought nothing of it. This reaction is typical of my mum. While it wasn’t articulated in a way I appreciated, she had a point: you can only wear two shoes at once.
Moreover, why purchase something you don’t even take the time to enjoy? Before it’s arrived, you’re already onto what’s next. I’m a distinguished professor of outfit mathematics, a new pair of trousers requires the addition of shoes and a jacket to complete the sum. At the time, I was working so much and doing so little; my bank was balancing. So, if I could afford it, you might think what’s the issue? Reflecting, I don’t feel like I was doing myself any good.
Unless gifting, consumerism is a self-serving behaviour. Typically, you buy the thing you want, and it pleases you alone. But what is the point of clothing or jewellery when nobody else can see it? You’re kidding yourself if there isn’t a part of you that wants to be appreciated.
Sometimes, it’s worth remembering that we were put on this planet with little more than food and shelter. Clothing came next, but essentially, it’s all material. We assume luxuries make our lives easier or more enjoyable, and sparingly, they do. However, the more you have, the more it takes to please yourself.