I've always been one of those women that finds comfort in buying something new. Looking back, I can see a distinct trend. Job interview nerves translated into a new dress. My first date with my fiancee warranted a new shirt and loafers. If it was fresh out the packet, it had to constitute the height of style, right?
I came across this passage in the book 'After Birth' by Eliza Albert, which expresses the exact opposite and got me thinking.
"Soft, ragged, old man jeans, none of the Lycra pre-faded grotesquerie. Ancient brown boots. Asymmetrical navy poncho in a low-key cotton/cashmere blend - unmistakably quality but appropriately pilled and loved. It'd look prissy new, and that right there's the thing most women don't understand about style: clothing must be worn, lived in, assimilated into uniform. Otherwise its mere costume."
I own one piece of clothing that lives up to this ideal: an old pair of leather cowboy boots that I bought while I was living in London. I've walked them through rain, snow and the red sand at Oppi Koppi. My life has shifted from expat party girl stumbling through a bleak digs to this strange new creature who lives in a big house filled with real love and proper furniture. Yet they have stretched and moulded like a second skin to my ever-changing life. This energy must come across, as every time I wear the boots I get praised while other, newer shoes get ignored.
What do you think?