Bursting out of the chrysalis

After months of restrictions, London-based fashion writer Maggie Alderson is going out – but first she has to cast off her lockdown slothwear, get her hair done and strap on a proper bra.

As I write, I’m thinking of all my darling Sydney and Melbourne friends confined in lockdown. And winter lockdown to boot, a double dose of grimlingness.

I see their posts on Facebook, struggling with homeschooling, creating cocktail ‘zones’ in their homes to make it feel like they’re going out, and trying to get more excited about online fashion shopping than they really feel.

I’m sending big elbow hugs.

Me? I’m going to a party. A full-on, lots of people, overexcited, spitty close-up chatting, disco dancing, let-it-all-hang-out rave up.

The difference is that I’m in the UK, where we’ve done a long hard haul with three tough lockdowns and a disgraceful number of deaths but have finally been released into a version of freedom by the enthusiastic take-up of an efficient vaccination rollout.

By now the majority of the population here have been doublejabbed, had COVID – or died from it, which seems to be the definition of ‘herd immunity’. Moo.

So, that’s all great and this situation will be achieved in Australia too – and without the over-catering on the deaths. Just hold the faith and keep urging people to get the shots. It’s not forever, it’s just for now.

But from my post-lockdown perspective there is one issue I am advising you to be aware of for when your Freedom Day rolls around. What the hell do you wear to it?

I have found myself mulling this today, pre-party, as I have ever since restrictions first started to be lifted here back in May, leading to some deep existential conundrums.

What are shoes? How is a bra?

Why is a handbag?

And even if I can figure out what you do with all those things that I have been so happily doing without – do I want to? Can’t I just make dressing like Kurt Cobain on a stayhome day part of my new normal?

I certainly felt sistership with Gillian Anderson when she said that she wasn’t going back to bras even if her boobs were hanging down to her waist.

Mine have been doing pretty much that in a marvellous new genre of non-wired step-in stretch bras I’ve been living in, since discovering them just before our first lockdown. They’re even more comfortable for me than no bra. A kind of improved hug of air.

The thought of going back to the sort of engineered bustenhalters that chafe your underboob, bruise your ribs and mutilate your shoulders into camel humps is appalling – but unfortunately, so is the reflection in the mirror when I have tried putting any clothes other than a singlet and a flannel shirt over the top of my soft bras.

Then there is the grooming. Along with just about all of my girlfriends, one positive I found in lockdown life was the opportunity to fully grow out the grey, without going through the gruesome intermediate stage in public.

With all the hair salons closed, it was either that or pharmacy dyes and I am way too old to pull off a Debbie Harry.

In the imposed isolation a friend’s mum, nearly 90, has finally been able to let go of decades of dye jobs, surrendering her unnatural coal black hair to a much more flattering silver grey. She looks amazing and feels released.

I looked like a dirty mop. Even a home blow-dry with my rotating brush-dryer to smooth out the grey frizz-grizzle didn’t help. I looked like a dirty mop about to read the news.

So, between the hell hair and the embarrassing boobs, even before the full freedoms like tonight’s party came back, I was facing the fact that I was going to have to retrain myself to dress as a human being.

The first realisation that I had completely forgotten how to do it for any public outings other than power walks and supermarket mercy dashes hit me first in May, when restaurants were finally allowed to open again in the UK after months of miserable closure.

Chatting on the social with two old pals in the dark depths of our gruesome winter lockdown, we decided that what we were missing most were proper restaurants, with aproned waiters, starched napkins and glamorous fellow diners.

So, taking a punt on a spring release, we made an advanced booking for London’s eternally loveliest lunch spot, The Wolseley (also heaven for breakfast, tea and dinner; even walking past it makes me happy).

It was thrilling when the government officially confirmed the restaurant reopening date and we were fully green-lit, but then the reality hit: I couldn’t wear trackies and a soft bra to The Wolseley.

I threw open my wardrobe for inspiration and recoiled in shock.

I didn’t know how to do it anymore. I could no longer speak Outfit.

When getting dressed has meant nothing more than reinserting yourself into the comforting softness left on the bedroom chair the night before, combining disparate garments into a chic whole – also comfortable enough for a couple of hours on a train – seemed beyond comprehension.

Also, I had to face the fact that a lot of my go-to favourite things no longer did up so easily. Lockdown lard.

I hurriedly closed the wardrobe and rang my grooming team, now also finally allowed to operate again. Within days I’d had the works. Cut and colour, eyelashes, face, fingers and toes.

With that in place and a smoothhaired blonde looking back at me again, I felt able to do another thing which had been prohibited for months

– and I’d been feeling oddly shy about. I went into my favourite clothes shop, a brilliant designer consignment store near my house.

Even with a wretched mask on, it was glorious to flick through the rails again, touching the merch and holding it up against myself in the mirror.

Fun as it is to swipe pages of fab frocks sitting in bed, the reality of the arriving object made from fabric that grates against the skin and is weirdly small for the sizing (ahem), followed by the repacking and trip to the post office really isn’t that glamorous.

And there among the actual clothes I could nearly try on (that’s still prohibited here) I found the perfect thing in the perfect fit. A French navy leather jacket, in the biker shape, but without a lot of fussy hardware.

With the thrill of one new piece, my whole wardrobe was immediately unlocked. And I remembered I had a

“It was glorious to flick through the rails, touching the merch and holding it up in the mirror.”

– Maggie

really great stretch skirt that was gloriously forgiving in the waist locale.

Next in the outfit jigsaw was a top by Seafolly in a fab hibiscus print chiffon – wittily made in the shape of a sweatshirt, giving it instant comfort blanket appeal.

And for my feet, giving a little lift to my heels – and buttocks – without compromising comfort, a pair of genius wedge Birkenstocks, an impulse online purchase that actually paid off.

With that all in place, chic yet surprisingly comfortable real clothes, but with a nod to my lockdown slothwear, I felt able to strap myself into a full straitjacket bra.

That bit was murderous – so I undid it on the train ride home and was back in my softie the next morning. It’s actually fun learning to dress again, but Gillian Anderson is onto something about the bras. AWW