Caring about what Meghan wears doesn’t make women stupid
Aglorious bank holiday weekend and three generations of women in my family are in the garden discussing the hot topic of the moment. Brexit? Soaring knife crime? The Iran nuclear deal? Don’t be ridiculous. We’re talking about Meghan’s dress.
“Are you excited about the wedding?” asks the 80-something, who says she is eager to see “the fashions”. The 20-something admits she is very excited. “Can’t wait to see what she wears!” We are all three of us mildly scandalised that Harry’s bride has splashed a rumoured £100,000 on a gown (“It’s not right for her to spend more than Kate did on her wedding dress”), but I notice that this does little to dampen our feverish anticipation.
The 50-something (aka your columnist) is intrigued to find out whether Meghan will opt for what suits her American-actress Suits self – sleeveless, low-cut, revealing a lot of collarbone, hair long, tendrilly and down – or will she bow to royal pressure (full sleeves, definitely no cleavage, formal up-do plus historic tiara). Much will be revealed by that decision.
Clothes are rarely only decorative; they are revealing of a world-view as well as a personal style.
It was clear from our delightful speculation about the wedding – what on earth will the mad hatters come up with this time for Princess Beatrice? – that visual pleasure is an intrinsic part of the female psyche at any age.
Were there groups of men in the UK pondering the outfits at the royal wedding or were they too busy burning burgers on the BBQ and absorbing the earth-shattering news about Sir Alex Ferguson and his brain haemorrhage?
I intend no disrespect when I say that Alex Ferguson means nothing to me. Nor to millions of other women, I would wager. Yet his illness led the TV news and dominated the front pages in a way I found completely over the top. It’s revealing how predominantly male interests are still treated with seriousness, reverence even, while female interests are deemed to be gossipy or lightweight.
That point emerges with great force in Caroline Slocock’s brilliant new book about Margaret Thatcher, People
Like Us. As private secretary to the prime minister during her last 18 months in No 10, Slocock observed that “clothes were her private passion”.
A whole chapter is dedicated to what Mrs T wore, the way that her wardrobe shifted from slightly fussy clothes that advisers felt made her look “too much like a Tory wife” to tailored suits that gave a more androgynous silhouette, which she always softened with feminine touches like high heels and pearls.
The PM invented a look that was masculine enough to project what we recognise as power, yet sufficiently feminine to remain true to her own nature. Slocock says that in order to change attitudes to women in public, female journalists could take a lead and “stop writing about what women wear and start reporting what they say”. I’ve got a better idea. How about we start treating feminine passions as important and worthy of respect?
Admittedly, fashion has its absurdities – see Katy Perry wearing a three-ton feather duster as a “heavenly angel” at the Met Gala. But the fact is the extraordinary female ability to notice things, I mean really notice and analyse visual things, whether it’s lovely clothes or feelings scudding across a human face, is what makes women remarkable. That’s not weakness, it’s a special power. And I’m not ashamed to say it; I can’t wait to see Meghan’s dress.