These days, I seem less averse to the idea of making the most of those two underused X-shaped chromosomes that my genome so happens to boast. By which, I obviously mean, wearing a skirt. Not that the other half can’t—see: Scotland, a J.W. Anderson runway show, and the odd hipster strolling down Shoreditch High Street. But I’m not quite as irreverential, if only on the surface.
You can blame my French genes for that.
After endorsing a boyish silhouette for too long (if my relationship status is anything to go by that is), the pleated skirt feels delightfully rebellious for all its girlish charm.
Present season politely commanding pleats (please), I am willing to oblige just as long as I may dress down to render slightly off-putting to Tinder-Male-Next-Door (not that I use dating sites, another of my old fashioned traits). Hence the lace up flats and asymmetrical sloppy knit, pulled down low.
Think sk8ter boi in his XXL tee and baggy board shorts, with a feminine twist. And an expensive NET-A-PORTER habit.
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