Well-dressed One

By Erin Deborah Waks

I haven't written about fashion in a while. But then last week a friend told me I'm considered the 'well-dressed one' in that particular social circle. And I was equal parts flattered and astounded.

When I was a little girl, I wore only pink. Quite literally. Pink skirts, pink tops, pink headbands, pink bracelets. Sometimes, if I was feeling feisty, I'd throw in a touch of purple, or a sparkly necklace. But most of the time it was pink. I look back on some of the concoctions of outfits I assembled with a mix of fondness and embarrassment. I may have looked ridiculous, but I was so, deeply happy to be surrounded by a sea of girlishness and, well, pink.

When I was a teenager, I dressed pretty poorly. It was a reflection of my internal state: I didn't really know who I was, so I wore clothes reflecting that. I usually wore whatever the fashion was at the time, except without the sense of style that actually makes such trends look any good. And without an understanding of how they'd look on my particular body type.

I'd mix black tights with white trainers, put a far-too-short cotton pencil skirt on top, and then throw on a Hollister hoodie. I'd suffer through cheap heeled boots with shorts and a crop top, envisaging an Ariana Grande-style tenue, and end up looking a lot more like an overgrown child in her mum's clothes. I'd buy flared jeans that were too long, roll them up and wear a see-through turtleneck with another t-shirt on top. 

Then I moved to Paris. 

In Paris, I learnt that following micro-trends alone for inspiration is for those not blessed with a sense of style of their own. If you didn't know how to dress yourself, you'd pick up whatever was all over Instagram, you'd wear exactly what the mannequin at Zara was wearing. Instead, those gorgeous humans gifted with a cultivated understanding of how clothing can manifest your internal state would merely glance at the trends list, pick out a few items that fit within their personal brand, and continue to dress themselves without the help of clever marketing. It is, incidentally, why French women (or at least those I encountered) always wear matching lingerie. Because style is not just about what everyone else can see. It’s much more about how you feel.

Now, I've established that I look far better in vintage Levi's than I do in low-waisted parachute pants. I’m far classier in sweetheart necklines and red than in shapeless shirts and beige. I feel far more like myself in a simple trench coat with jeans and knee-high boots than in whatever designer puffer jacket and tracksuits are at the top of everybody else's wish list. 

Incidentally, then, I became the well-dressed friend the moment I stopped listening to everybody else, and started dressing like myself.