‘Living without fashion has taught me lessons about myself ’
Grazia’s Hattie Crisell on how the enforced pause has changed her attitude towards dressing for others – as well as for herself
Iwas a fashion editor in a previous life – but if you’d passed me in the street over the last few months (at a safe two-metre distance), you wouldn’t have known it. Since lockdown began, my former colleagues have peppered social media with their Ganni dresses, designer pyjamas and summer sandals, embracing glamour despite being stuck within their own four walls. For work calls, they seem to have worn not just outfits but #Wfhfits, with statement collars, jewelled hairclips and big sleeves. They’ve applied make-up and have nailed waist-up dressing. I, meanwhile, have been living wild-faced in the land that fashion forgot.
My wardrobe is no less fabulous than it was in early March – gold lamé shirt, check; white vinyl trousers, check. It’s just that it’s stayed right there, in my wardrobe. I’ve spent my lockdown in tracksuit bottoms or baggy jeans and a rotation of T-shirts, to which I’ve given almost zero thought. ‘Oh, you’ve got your NHS T-shirt on again!’ said a friend on Facetime last week; I had to look down to check.
The shoe shelf in my bedroom is full but dusty, because I now only wear two pairs of trainers, and I keep them by the front door to avoid bringing in germs. This morning I caught sight of the pink-lined biker boots that I bought excitedly last September; it was like receiving a postcard from another me, sent from a very far-off universe.
I live alone and, since the pandemic hit, I confess that I’ve found it difficult to care what I look like. That’s not to say that in ‘real life’ I dress only for the approval of other people. My wardrobe is calibrated to my taste, not theirs – but I now realise that the fun of fashion, for me, is in communicating something to the world.
Jeans and T-shirts are always part of it; they’re what I wear to fly under the radar and get shit done. But they’re offset by at least as many days when I choose clothes to present a facet of myself: confident, serious, seductive or playful. It’s a game of identity, and I didn’t realise how much I enjoyed it until it was taken away. In March, many of us saw the world of colleagues, friends and crushes, of pubs, offices and parties abruptly dissolve into thin air. And what is the point of putting on your denim boilersuit when there’s no one around to witness you as a sexy mechanic with a 1970s vibe?
Dressing up has also felt less joyful – in fact, for me it’s been too painful to contemplate. My most treasured clothes are associated with afternoons in beer gardens, conspiratorial dinners with friends, and the moments when I throw my arms around loved ones. Some people have found that those pieces have given them a boost in lockdown; this is a lovely trick if it works for you. But in my home at least, fashion has had to be folded and put away.
That is, until lockdown restrictions began to ease. Now, as I write this, we’re adjusting to the gradual end of our fashion fast. I’m also preparing for my birthday, on which I’m thankfully allowed to see friends and family (outdoors, of course), and I’ll be doing Zoom drinks, too. I’m going to dress up for it, but I can’t really remember how that’s done.
I open my wardrobe and tentatively pull out some favourite outfits from the days BC (before coronavirus). I reach first for a very silly velvet T-shirt, leopard-printed with puff shoulders; it’s very Joan Collins and, as I stroke the fabric, I remember two nights earlier this year when I wore it with friends and felt fabulous. Further along the rail is a pink satin Ghost dress with buttons down the front, last seen at a Christmas party, and next to that is the low-cut, red Kitri frock that I wore with bravado to a wedding – having been dumped the day before.
There’s a pair of glittery Philosophy trousers that I will forever associate with my last day as acting fashion editor of The Times. I made good friends there and we got blind-drunk at my leaving do; the trousers were egging me on. Then there’s a white linen Zara dress that I baked in on holiday in Provence with my friend Tor, and a hand-dyed, tent-like breezy thing that I bought in India with my parents.
In a dish on a shelf in my bedroom is the gold ring with a black stone that, in normal life, I wear most days – my friend Claire and I bought one each at a market. Once, at a Milan Fashion Week show, I had to beg someone to dismantle a sink because I’d dropped that ring down the drain. Now it feels odd on my hand.
As I look at the clothes and accessories I’ve been neglecting, I feel an overwhelming affection. I love my jeans and T-shirts; they are the armour that has got me through this dismal time. But they don’t conjure up the joy of the jumpsuit I wore to my last picnic.
So what do I wear for a birthday as the first hints of movement emerge after a season standing still? Something hopeful, something defiant, something fabulous is the answer; it needs to involve two or three outfit changes, a pile of jewellery, and an unapologetically short hemline. We’re back, after all – and fashion, our old friend, has waited for us.
FASHION IS A GAME OF IDENTITY; I DIDN’T REALISE HOW MUCH I ENJOYED IT