Fashion mistakes come in myriad shapes and guises. And although it helps in the recounting thereof if they’re horrific, frequently they’re not. They can simply be wrong for you or your lifestyle.
There’s the matching purple halter-neck that you acquired on a bonding afternoon with your teenage daughter; the gorgeous sequined Burberry-lookalike shift dress you bought because it made you feel 18 again, which, in the cold light of day, is part of the problem. There’s the heavenly floor-length black dress, snapped up in the sales on the off-chance that you might one day be invited to the Oscars; the statement coat that fashion editors hailed as the shape of the season but makes you look like a doughnut. There’s the colour that looks fabulous in the shop but not on you; the shoes you can’t walk in; the bra that works only on its own. And then there are the repeat offenders: the 21st black dress/pair of trousers/sling-backs that you always end up buying because you know they work. Except they don’t when there are 21 of them.
The remedy is not to get hung up on them. Learning to recognise your mistakes quickly and moving on is part of the cure. Sell, donate or swap them, but don’t let them clog up your wardrobe and dent your confidence. If there is a single unifying feature of mistakes it’s this: we all make them.
LISA ARMSTRONG
Fashion Crime: Marni wedges
Purchased: Milan, September 2006
Number of times worn: 2½
In mitigation I will say that I had taken such a ruthlessly analytical approach to shoe shopping before this blip that when it was time to go to Milan for the shows, I literally didn’t have any to wear.
When I say I literally didn’t have any to wear, I don’t mean literally, literally. I mean I didn’t have any patent platform wedges, which is slightly different, but, for those few weeks, when patent platform wedges were the shoe, no less distressing. Enter the Marni flagship in Milan, a rare spare half-hour between shows to go shopping with my esteemed colleague Carolyn Asome and a driver, and you have the factors at the crux of the calamity that followed. It’s amazing just how quickly having a driver, even for half a day, makes you forget that the other 2,000 hours of your working life rely on your ability to walk.
What is wrong with these shoes? First the colour, most politely described as dung and which, considering I wanted black, was a venal sin (the sales assistant told me they were a neutral. Insofar as they don’t go with anything, they are). Secondly, they are a health hazard. The shop assistant assured me that they were comfortable. This is also true. But that constitutes another crime, since they manage to be bulky and difficult to walk in while spectacularly failing to place your arch in the appropriate sexy angle, although they look great on Carolyn (lesson 792, don’t judge by friends). Carolyn said I just need to master the rocking horse techniques. Fourthly, they are hideous.
Conclusion: Life is too short for rocking horse techniques. Limos are for Milan, not for life. Dung may be a neutral but it is not a colour fit for humans. Repeat after me: I must not be a sheep.
CAROLYN ASOME
Fashion crime: Repeatedly buying the same item in several colours
Purchased: During the past 20 years
Number of times worn: Not enough
I’d love to blame my “buying one in every colour” offence on some deep-rooted Chinese consumer gene, but the hard-to-face-up-to truth is that I’m sometimes indecisive. Often disguising self-indulgence as being practical, I’m a pro at convincing myself that not one but two identical items will improve my wardrobe dramatically; and I don’t just mean buying the occasional V-neck cardi in more than colour. To date I’ve been swayed by patent stilettos, pleated skirts at Miu Miu, capes at Moschino, tops at Marni and even two £500 coats from J&M Davidson. Needless to say, this habit (or mistake) does not come cheaply; especially when one of them languishes unloved at the back of the clothes rail.
Invariably, I wear one colour more than the other and sometimes the second doesn’t even go with what I have. I’m guilty of choosing something simply because it has a gorgeous hue rather than because it works as part of the bigger picture, which is particularly a problem with separates. Navy and purple tend to be my shades of choice, although if I look hard enough there are duplicates of lots of items in lots of colours.
NICOLA COPPING
Fashion crime: A vintage dress too smart for my social life
Purchased: Spring 2006
Number of times worn: 0
This vintage dress is perfect for sharing cucumber sandwiches with the Queen. But unless Prince William decides he wants me as his bride or I am appointed OBE for services to leopard print, it’s destined to a life of loneliness in the back of the wardrobe.
It’s simply too smart for my meagre social diary. That’s not to say it doesn’t do wonders for my figure. It sucks in my waist, makes my chest look as upright as a stack of shelves, and comes in a colour that puts cornflowers to shame. It’s wonderful to wear, but totally impractical. Worn in the office, I would face a barrage of quizzical glances from the more casually attired sub-editors. At a wedding, guests would whisper, “Yes, she’s in fashion” — and not in a good way. And even in a smart restaurant it feels too bold, too retro, as though I should be ordering petit fours and a pot of Earl Grey rather than a margherita pizza.
My colleagues suggest I should wear it for dinner with my boyfriend (I would still feel like the fourth member of the Puppini Sisters), or to work (I challenge them to carry it off in East London). I’m still waiting for the call from HRH.
ALICE OLINS
Fashion crime: Buying a yellow printed Celia Birtwell because it was fashionable, not because it suited me
Purchased: April 2006
Number of times worn: 0
Working in the fashion industry can be akin to tribal living. Where one wedged shoe steps, a thousand others follow. For an industry that prides itself on original creativity, we’re pretty unimaginative. My Celia Birtwell dress, lovely as it is, is a glaring example of this communal misadventure. In short, I bought it because everyone else wanted it. Long before the collection was launched, I saw a picture of the dress and imagined it hanging elegantly off my tanned back.
With the help of a layering white T-shirt, I thought this dress would underpin my whole summer wardrobe. Buying it would also validate my fashion literacy; after all, Birtwell was the woman who breathed life into Ossie Clark’s dresses. I was wrong, on both counts. Yes, I got it before the masses — but the masses got hold of it anyway. And, I didn’t wear it. Why? Because the colour makes me look as if I have a severe bout of food poisoning and the wraparound shape gives me hips as wide as I am tall. Moral: it’s not worth looking like curtains on acid to stay in the tribe.
EVE THOMAS
Fashion crime: multiple black dresses
Purchased: over several years
Number of times worn: some often, some never
Every woman needs a little black dress, or so they say — not 21 of them, which is how many I own. I didn’t realise this until I gathered them all up for the sake of this piece. Some I’ve never worn. I’ve picked them up all over the place: I stole a few from my mother and I inherited two from my great-grandmother (her jet beaded flapper dress is the most prized in my collection).
I tell myself that each purchase is both a classic and a potential family heirloom. The downside is that they take up most of my wardrobe, where they blend into a black mass. Not only do I end up wearing a little black dress almost every time I go out, I often wear the very same one, because I have a couple of favourites and tend to stick to them. And while they all seem very different to me, I’m sure there are acquaintances of mine who think that I’ve been wearing the same black dress to every party since I was 18.
CAROLA LONG
Fashion crime: a Sara Berman knitted jumper dress
Purchased: Around a year ago
Number of times worn: One
I really liked this dress when I saw one of my friends wearing it, so when I spotted it in a designer second-hand shop for £45, I thought it must be fate. Unfortunately, although I still like the dress itself, it suited my friend much more than me. She has cuter taste, and pulled off that Amélie-Minnie Mouse-French maid look with considerable aplomb.
Wearing it, I feel more like a dumpy mime artist than an ingénue. My favourite dress shape is a more 1940s, tea-dress style and if I veer away from that my experiments tend to languish in the wardrobe. I’ve worn my “mistake” only once. My friend Becca and I agreed to go out in uncharacteristic outfits — she wore a dress that her mum disparagingly refers to as “the pharmacist’s uniform” and I wore this — but I felt quite self-conscious, as it was too short and cartoon-like.
To my surprise, everyone really liked it at the shoot; Alice even offered to buy it. When I realised that someone else wanted it, I decided to keep it — typical fashion psychology — but I still haven’t worn it again.
Take your cue from these wardrobe mistresses
Annabel Hodin, style consultant, 020-7431 8761
Celia Clark, personal stylist (wardrobe days can be booked, from £600), 07810 251721
Shop with a list of what you need; often people shop according to their mood, not their needs. Shopping when you have PMT is a recipe for disaster. Leesa Whisker (whiskeragency.co.uk)
