I made two fashion faux pars today.
1. I dared to step outside with my getting-less-subtle-everyday grey streaks of hair shining through my dark roots. I’m just waiting for someone to say “Oh Mon! You’re going bloon… oh no, my mistake. It’s grey. Boo, poor you!”
2. I told someone one of my favourite designers was Isabella Ramsay instead of Arabella (!!!) Ramsay. Death. Fashion-verbal-diarrhoea-drivel-death. No wonder they had NO IDEA who I was talking about.
But then I got to thinking about… Well, what does it matter? Clearly I can dress myself and at least I don’t walk around like a cat-lady with fur coming off me; a human-feline shedding. Most days anyway, Brixton my cat does seem to get his hair everywhere on my personal belongings… Including my toothbrush! But, I digress; Brixy’s hair is a story for another time.
So yes, what does it matter. Lots of girls love the in’s and out’s of fashion but we can’t all afford to keep up with it.
Calling Arabella Isabella is somewhat inexcusable though. Maybe not shopping is dulling the element of my brain committed to fashion knowledge. Like when you don’t practice maths or an instrument and forget how to make something work.
I must get to the Ethical Fashion Evening tonight. That might help cleanse my soul and help strength my brain muscles with more insightful information about the fashion world. At least I have Brixton to steer me if I go further astray…
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| Brixton looking most dapper for the Royal Wedding a few weeks ago. |
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