When I was a teenager in the 1980s, I had a lot of favourite items of clothing: scrunchy turquoise cargo trousers with an elasticated waistband, grey suede pixie boots, a skimpy beach T-shirt with the word “Hawaii” written on it (a place I have never visited), a Cyndi Lauper-inspired ra-ra skirt with ruffles in pink, white and, yes, turquoise. But there were so many objects of desire that I was not permitted to acquire: crinkle-effect stilettos, a Frankie Say Relax T-shirt, jelly shoes, drainpipe jeans, a matador hat like the ones Mel & Kim wore … Also out of my reach for most of my teens was the thing I wanted most: the effect of a whole outfit. A look. Until this one night.
I was about to turn 17 and this was my outfit for the school dance. It was all sourced from my grandma’s wardrobe, except for the sunglasses, which were my mum’s. The outfit consisted of pieces that no one else would – or indeed should – put together: a pink sparkly minidress with a silver-sequined hem and collar, silver sparkly elbow-length gloves, square-toed gold vintage shoes and a fake fur leopard-print coat which was not to be removed, even indoors. The coat was an essential part of the outfit, (a) for modesty reasons, as the dress was a bit see-through and (b) because I did not have maximum body confidence at this or, it would transpire, any other time. My hair was styled with my mum’s heated rollers and assiduously coated with L’Oréal Studio Line hairspray.
