I’ll be your mirror
Shabby dressers beware: A new chief of the fashion police is in town.
THE DAWNING of a New Year is traditionally a time to evaluate one’s life and set new goals, so I’ve done just that. As the last strangled chords of Auld Lang Syne died away on December 31, it occurred to me through a haze of single malt that the time was ripe to become a better citizen.
My New Year’s resolution for 2013 is to suppress my usual selfish impulses and become increasingly considerate and empathetic. After all, why be a prick when so many others have already made it their life’s work?
Better, surely, to add to the dwindling reservoir of joy in the world by dispensing kindness to those in need. But how to best serve my fellow citizens? After much thought, I hit on a genius idea: I would become a human mirror, offering instant feedback to any stranger I noticed breaching basic sartorial rules.
Three weeks into this new regime, I am rushed off my feet. I can’t leave the house without stumbling across 50 people who desperately need my help. Indeed, Aotearoa is so densely populated with shabby dressers that I’ve had to limit myself to a couple of the most egregious fashion crimes, in the hope that I might make a significant difference in a more focused area.
For example, whenever I notice someone has their shirt collar turned up like a little fabric chimney, I politely inquire ‘‘Excuse me, did you know your collar’s turned up?’’ Perhaps they live in a house with no mirrors, or a stiff gust of wind may have lifted their collar skywards. If so, a friendly reminder to turn it back down can prevent the wearer unwittingly looking like a bumpkin, though such input should be avoided in the posher expanses of Canterbury, where the popped collar is erroneously considered ‘‘a good look’’, especially when accompanied by a fob chain.
I have also been run ragged assisting people who’ve developed eccentric methods of stashing their sunglasses when not in use. Pushed back up into the hairline is OK, but just nudged up half an inch above the eyes as if the person is protecting their forehead from the sun is a very bad look, and a helpful citizen should always point this out. Also, if you see a person with their sunnies hanging straight down from their ears and waggling about under their chin like a polaroid beard, surely you should offer a few discreet pointers regarding alternatives, to avoid undue embarrassment.
I’ve also had my work cut out assisting fellow citizens who’ve developed a dignity-threatening affection for that unforgivable fashion abomination: Capri pants.
While they look like something straight from the devil’s drawing board, these truncated trou were first foisted upon the public by Prussian designer Sonja de Lennert in 1948, and they caught on worldwide after American actress Grace Kelly wore a pair on the Italian isle of Capri during the 1950s. One imagines the shrunken leg-length kept Kelly’s kecks dry as she strolled the Marina Grande, dipping her shapely toes into the warm waters of the Mediterranean, but that doesn’t mean people should still be wearing them 60 years later on the mean streets of Tauranga or Palmerston North.
Anyone who’s seen photos of the young Kelly will know this woman would have still been a knockout if she’d casually thrust her legs into two dead snakes. On almost everyone else, Capri pants are a disaster, making tall women look short, short women look shorter, and men look like overgrown children. If you see someone wearing a pair, it’s best to let them know the truth. Early intervention is the most humane option, before such an unflattering look really takes hold.
It pays to be careful, however. Not everyone welcomes free fashion advice from a stranger, no matter how helpful. New Year or no New Year, some ungrateful people become angry and say hurtful things. ‘‘What gives you the right to be so critical?’’ they shout at me. ‘‘As a scruffy porker who clearly shuns exercise