According to Kate Winslet her eight-year-old daughter has fixed views about
her mother's wardrobe. Welcome to my world Kate. And every other
mother-with-daughter's universe. When it comes to their mother's appearance,
all daughters have views, ranging in ferocity from mildly scathing to
fathomless reservoirs of scorn. That surely is the point of them. When
they're not mewling, wingeing or bitching (depending what point of the
evolutionary trajectory they're on), isn't their main function to set their
mothers straight sartorially?
No one dispenses advice on looks the way that daughters do. Sometimes they
don't even need to say anything. The look of fear on your five-year-old's
face when you get togged up one night in your on-trend puffball skirt, the
discovery that your ten-year-old has been lying to you about parents'
evening for the past two terms on the basis that if she told you that the
school had dispensed with them, you wouldn't be able to humiliate her by
turning up in your ancient granny coat and hopelessly off-trend trainers -
these tell you all you need to know about your style.
I think we'd be foolish not to listen sometimes. I don't mean we should heed
the stuff from five-year-olds about how they'd want us to dress like Barbie,
or adopt Cheryl Cole's hairdresser. But children can be remarkably
perceptive about appearances and fearless, if not entirely precise, when it
comes to expressing their reservations. “Mummy, why are you wearing clown
make-up?” may lack the sophistication of a Vogue analysis, but it does the
job. Last week Kate, 33, told a US chatshow: “[Mia]said: ‘Mum, why do you
wear so much black?'”And she's right, her mother does wear too much back.
Once I'd explained to my daughters why I would not be wearing miniskirts, ever
(horrible knees) , or orange, they learnt to frame their comments within a
context that was relevant to my style and wasn't simply a projection of
their fantasies. If you teach them generally that spiteful remarks are
unhelpful (and have a way of coming back to bite you), you can work your way
towards a mutually helpful clothes-us operandi that can be a tremendous
source of pleasure. The night my daughters laid out an outfit on the bed for
me to wear to a party - navy silk dress, black satin shoes, matching bag and
underwear - was the moment I realised that, sartorially speaking, they'd
grown up. I think the eldest was about 10.
They're now 16 and 13. I often ask - and sometimes take - their counsel and
try not to proffer my advice unless asked for, except when they insist on
flashing dazzling amounts of cleavage, which they all seem to, or going out
into a snowdrift without coats. Terrified of shunting them into an eating
disorder, I initially banned myself from saying “Have you seen the size of
your bottom in that?” but I have become more forthright recently,
particularly with the trend for metallic neon leggings and the not entirely
felicitous effect they have on the family's legs unless worn with long tops.
I'm gratified to say that most days they pop into my bedroom before leaving
for school to get the once over, although whether it's me, or my job as the
Times Fashion Editor, the trappings of which carry far more kudos among them
and their friends than the papacy, that impresses them is a moot point.
I'm equally happy to report that while fashion may be one area of our
co-existence in which all is pretty harmonious (choose your battles: your
15-year-old's habit of applying her make-up as if she were starring in La
Cage aux Folles isn't that big a deal) ,we don't share clothes. I have no
desire to relive my teens in aforementioned American Retro leggings, even
while I love the way that they look on them (provided long tops are worn).
Meanwhile, my clothes are far too frumpy (and, being generally knee length,
about 20cm too long) for them. However, they covet my handbags and shoes,
although alas (can you sense my utter jubilation?) their feet are much
bigger than mine. For the purposes of this piece, I asked them how they
would like me to dress in an ideal world. All things considered, they
conceded, they wouldn't change anything. That, for me, beats being on any
best-dressed list.
You've let yourself go
It is my five-year-old daughter's oft-expressed opinion that most of my
clothes are “uggerly”. When she sits on the floor in changing rooms watching
me try on yet another dark brown, long-sleeved top (my preferred dowdy weed
of winter) her expression is one of saddened incomprehension. “There are
loads of pretty dresses in this shop - why do you want to look like a boy?”
she asks, shaking her head, the way a disappointed teacher does. “Brown's
horrible and grungy, like poo. And it reminds me of black and I don't like
black because that reminds me of the scary dark.” Right-ho.
It's no use explaining, as I have many times, that as mummies get older they
can't go to work in February wearing cerise taffeta because then they'll
look like desperate panto dames (or, actually, King's Cross hookers).
Children of her age just don't agree with the premise. If you are an aged
crone - ie, over 25 - then that's all the more reason to wear bright colours
- “just like the three good fairies in Sleeping Beauty - and they're even
older than you”. Unlike Kate Winslet's daughter - who told her mother that
“anyone over the age of 10 shouldn't wear pink” - she thinks the world would
be a better place if all females dressed permanently like Tinkerbell.
So I knew which outfits Lucy would pick when I let her loose on my wardrobe.
Like a dervish, she made a beeline for the main monstrosity, a long,
salmon-pink evening dress from Karen Millen, which I bought in a moment of
blind derangement and makes me look like a thick-waisted prawn (I've worn it
once). Then, as predicted, she pulled out my wedding dress, a cream Alice
Temperley job, in which Lucy watched me get married to her father two and a
half years ago. At the time she seemed astonished that I'd scrubbed up OK
and, probably because I was wearing a tiara, said “Mummy, you're like a
princess”. Bless her. But she cannot understand why I haven't worn it since:
I know she thinks I have “let myself go”. If it was up to her I'd be
trotting off to Tesco in it every week.
Her third choice was more surprising - a multicoloured sundress from H&M
that finally even she, in her sweet, rose-tinted specs, could see was
grotesquely
unflattering. So after much umming it was the frightful prawn with 4in heels
(again, never worn). I pointed out that the temperature was freezing and
that it had no sleeves but Lucy scorned my wussiness. The pièce de
résistance was a silk flower in my hair and a garland of plastic flowers
from her hula-girl outfit.
I appear, as you can see, like an escaped psychiatric patient. But Lucy says I
look “much better than usual” and, alarmingly, her father doesn't disagree.
“You hardly ever wear nice dresses, always tatty old jeans and stuff,”
shrugs my own Gok Wan.
Well, that's because dresses are uncomfortable and impractical and you have to
wear nasty tights and it has been, like, minus 5C lately, I say defensively.
If we let children dress us everyday we'd all die of hypothermia. And anyway
you try going to the shop on a rainy Monday afternoon in a jewel-encrusted
long frock.
My local newsagent was very polite and asked whether I was going “somewhere
nice”. But the other customers, I knew, were simply wondering whether I'd
forgotten to take my medication.
Carol Midgley
Now you're a lady
A few weeks before this assignment, and I'm getting ready to go out for the
evening. My daughter Beatrice, 5, wanders in. She is wearing a pair of
yellow candystripe shorts, school socks, red Wellington boots and an
acid-green fleece with pink and blue polkadots on it. This is her idea of
suitable nightwear. I have reluctantly acquiesced, not least because I just
want her to go to bed so I can make an attempt to look decent.
She puts down her toy dog, Toby, and observes me. “The problem is, Mummy,” she
says, “that you look quite nice - but you'll never be pretty until you grow
your hair.” She is almost certainly correct, of course. Nevertheless, it's
not a helpful observation at this stage. “Also,” she continues, “you should
wear a skirt more often. Trousers are for boys. You already look like a boy
because of your short hair. So, it wouldn't be nearly as bad if you put on a
skirt. And some lipstick.” In the end I wear what I always wear on these
occasions (a barmaidy black dress that makes me look only slightly less
unattractive than Pat Butcher), and resolve to make up for my sartorial
shortcomings with personality.
I long since gave up trying to draw attention to myself via clothing. I just
want to play it safe. My daughter, of course, has none of my hang-ups. After
passing through the obligatory pink phase at 3, she has settled into her own
funky little style - and is assertive about it. On a recent trip to Jigsaw
to find a bridesmaid's dress, she told the sales assistant that she was
“actually allergic” to skirts, and could wear only shorts or skinny jeans ,
for medical reasons. On the way home, she elaborated: she was now officially
a tomboy, and her new favourite colours were brown and red. All good signs
given this challenge , I thought, as I told her that she was going to be in
charge of my clothes for a day. Her eyes widened in disbelief. Then she
giggled and said, “OK, OK, I know: you can wear just PANTS!” Her brother, 4,
almost fell off his chair laughing. “Daddy's pants!” she added.
We went upstairs to the bedroom. Her first selection, a red High School
Musical ra-ra skirt, was impractical. I agreed to her choice of accessory: a
leopard-print handbag with silver leather handles. She rummaged through my
wardrobe. Jeans, trousers, shirts - all rejected. She had something specific
in mind...Eventually, she found what she was after: the dress. She fished
out a red shawl, a pair of brown tights and my brown boots. “There,” she
said. “Now you look like a proper lady.”
So I spent Saturday in my cocktail frock. I cleaned the bathroom, sorted the
washing, went to Sainsbury's - in layers of chiffon. Yes, I had to tuck the
frills into my bra while cleaning the bath, and I got the odd funny look in
the supermarket - but no one batted an eyelid. Someone even said that I
looked “quite nice”. Beatrice may have found her calling.
Sarah Vine
