If You Ask Me: Clothes Shopping is Hell

This month, Flo Whitaker addresses the hell of clothes shopping

They say that first impressions count. If you met me, I reckon your initial thought would be, “Blimey! There’s someone who doesn’t shell out for manicures and dry cleaning”. When it comes to low maintenance, I plumb the depths. I slightly resent the 20 minutes a year spent getting my annual haircut and would happily live my entire life in pyjamas if I could get away with it. 

Having grown up and worked in rural farming, fishing and horticultural environments, the notion of high heels and painted fingernails is incomprehensible. I’m so far removed from girlie- style, I must be a completely different species. Whenever I see a beauty salon advertising a ‘Nail Bar’, I’m tempted to go in and ask for “A box of two-inch galvanised, please”. 

I keep clothes forever; replace buttons, darn socks and apply patches until garments disintegrate. One day, as I stood in the kitchen, removing my outer layers after a chilly gardening session, the dog picked up my jumper and dropped it next to the waste bin. He shot me a look that said, ‘Sorry, but that dreadful old thing has really got to go’. When your wardrobe is appraised – and failed, by a labrador, you know you’re a lost cause to the fashion industry.

I’m not a total slob. I’ll make an effort; comb my hair and shine my shoes if the occasion demands it. However, in common with many women, I hate clothes shopping. 

Whether it be inconsistent sizing, poor quality fabrics or unfathomable vocabulary, (what exactly is a high-rise thong? Or a balcony bra?) the thought of trudging through acres of sparkly tops and impossibly skinny jeans in order to find something vaguely acceptable, does not appeal – but if someone opened a store called ‘Sensible Clothing for Traditionally-Built Women’, I’d be first in the queue.