What the Well Dressed Woman is Wearing

When she wore something less than what the vanguards of her faith considered appropriate, they called her indecent, immoral and obscene. When she wore more than what was acceptable to her peers, they called her a prudish conservative fundamentalist. No matter what she did, she was caught between being the daughter of Satan and an old fashioned loser.



When she wore denim, her college told her it had been banned. When she wore flip flops, her interviewers did not find her employable. When she tied her hair, she was a bookworm. When she left them open, she was untidy.


When her hem reached her ankles, she was living in the past. When it reached her calves, her body type did not permit it. When it stopped at her knees, she couldn’t ride a bike. Any higher than that, and the cultural police stoned her house, burnt her effigies, even though it was entirely the fault of the man who whistled at her on the roadside.


When she put on boots under her jeans, they were hidden. When she wore them with a short skirt, someone applauded in the offices of Vogue, but the cultural vanguards were lurking, so she quickly unbooted.


When her earrings were too long, they just didn’t go. When they were too small, she had to tie up her hair and then she was a nerd again. When she wore a shirt, they cried “Too boy-ish!”. When she wore frills they moaned, “Too girly!”. Anything with sequins blinded them, anything without them made her a plain jane.


When her heels were too high, she fell, not to mention the knee trouble she faced in the future. When they were too low, they were dowdy. When they were in between, the shoe wasn’t pretty enough. Full sleeves made her feel hot. Half sleeves were unprofessional. No sleeves made anyone with a gray hair gasp. When she went strapless, it was said violent crime might happen to her and she would be to blame.


If she wore a bright colour on the red carpet, the fashion police insulted her on prime time TV. When she wore the LBD, not one camera was flashed her way. When her toes didn’t peep, she was out of the loop. By the time they were peeping, peeping had gone out of fashion.


In school they said, be yourself. On TV they said, be like This. Her boss had an office dress code. Her religion had its own. And they almost never coincided.


Red made her look like a communist. Black ones made her look like the punks and emos the previous generation is disappointed in. In pink clothes, she was such a girl. In white she was old, or saintly, or something unbecoming along those lines. In green, she was a tree hugger. Let’s not even get into yellow. Without a tattoo, she didn’t fit in with the crowd. When she got one, her parents said they would throw her out.


A pant suit at work made the feminists say she was imitating the corporate male. A skirt suit made her colleagues say she was showing skin. Anything else made her bosses start drafting the termination of her contract. When she wore brands, the intellectuals clicked their tongues. When she didn’t, those same intellectuals at their wealthy parties clicked their tongues again.


When she put on pants, her family gnashed their teeth. When she was traditionally garbed, she wasn’t modern any more. She can’t wear a ball gown because no one wears them now. She can’t wear a sundress because no one around her does. She can’t wear a dress with bows and laces because, well, she isn’t a child anymore.


When she wasn’t following trends, she was un-cool. When she followed them, she was one of the herd, easily dictated to. When fashion wasn’t on her mind, they turned up their noses and said she didn’t care about herself. When fashion was on her mind, her teachers said she wasn’t serious about her career.


When she was moderate, whatever moderate meant in the context, fashionistas and artists and liberals and postmodernists all called out to her to break free of convention and do something new and creative and radically edgy. When she was edgy in any way whatsoever, all the prudent souls shook their wise heads and said, “Child, keep the occasion in mind, and dress moderately.”


And she did not know what moderate was, because skirts of all lengths, pants of all kinds, colours of all shades, shirts of all materials, dresses from all cultures, t-shirts of all collars, shoes of all heels and toes, accessories of all varieties, had all made someone unhappy.


So, honestly, I could not, for the love of God, possibly tell you, what on earth the well dressed woman is wearing.