blue with a white Joseph shirt and a De- signers Remix
jacket in powder blue. For good measure, I add pink
lipstick. Hell, if I’m wearing colour, I might as well go
for it. I feel exposed; like I haven’t put ‘me’ on. I brace
myself to leave my flat in my weird, flashy nakedness,
but... nothing. No one looks at me. I get into the office,
and a few people comment on the fact I’m wearing
lipstick, and that they like my jacket. No one utters the
c-word. It’s like they haven’t even noticed.
It’s a recurring theme. By Thursday I am so
bold as to take a banana yellow Karl Lagerfeld leather
jacket for a spin on the Tube. I scan the carriage,
eager to catch someone’s eye, to gauge their reaction. But no one has noticed me. Every- one is wearing
some kind of variation on black, blue or brown, apart
from one girl who is in a cobalt coat and matching
bean- ie. She hasn’t noticed me, either. Still, I keep
watch on her out of the corner of my eye, like she’s
some kind of ally.
It’s a curious thing. Apparently, the world
is nonplussed by what I’m wearing. Is my choice of
clothes inextricably linked with my personality? Yes,
but these peo- ple don’t know me, and they don’t
care. It’s weirdly liberating. Colour becomes my new
Japanese: a code to be cracked. It quickly becomes
apparent that, regardless of what colour they are, your
staples are your staples. A pair of orange Kurt Geiger
heels almost instantly become my go-to footwear. I find
myself considering buying the printed Monki jumper,
and ‘accidental- ly’ stashing those Acne trousers at
home.
I’m also surprised to learn that it’s cut and
shape over colour that affect how comfortable I feel
in what I’m wearing. One night, I go to a fashion party
that a friend is hosting. She is wearing a black
look
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