It’s my first day in a new publishing job and I am beyond excited. This is partly because the office is housed in a glossy ebony skyscraper and partly because the receptionist alone is eye-wateringly chic. All immaculate tailoring and superior cheekbones, she herds me into the waiting area with a haughty, fashiony disdain I find immensely thrilling. ‘You’ve made it, Wilder.’ I tell myself. ‘You’re finally IN The Devil Wears Prada.’
Then she spoils it by phoning my new boss and saying, “Your work experience girl is here.”
"Umhihello,” I whisper, bobbing apologetically up to her desk. “I’m actually not here on work experience. I’m the new editor.” The receptionist’s diamond-cut jaw goes slack. “But,” she splutters. “But your clothes...” (She actually said this).
I look down at these alleged clothes. I’ve teamed jeans and trainers with a shiny black parka several sizes too big for me, gigantic hair, ineptly-applied neon yellow nail varnish and, the pièce de résistance, an Eastpak messenger bag.
Shit I’ve come to work looking like Zooey Deschanel threw up on a schoolboy. AGAIN.
Obviously, this wasn’t the look I was going for. Obviously, when I put an outfit together, I’m not thinking, ‘hey, I wonder what will make me look most like a Year 10 shoplifting spree through Primark?’ Things just end up that way. I am a diminutive woman with masses of near-sentient hair and an abiding love of bargain clothing. In short, I am a tinker.
But I don’t want to be one. I’m tired of my local pharmacist greeting me with the word “aight” when he calls all the other women “ma’am”. I’m tired of checkout ladies demanding to see my ID if I so much as glance at the wine aisle. I am a professional. De facto wine privileges are my right.
Every so often I proclaim that I’m going to clamber my way out of tinkerhood and go shopping for A Whole New Look, firmly imagining myself as a sort of sleek, androgynous Katharine Hepburn/Diane Keaton hybrid (albeit one who looks a bit more like Danny DeVito than either of them). And at first I always choose well: well-fitted jeans, linen, fine-knits. Soon, though, the weight of beige and ecru starts to worry me. ‘Won’t I look like I’m a child masquaring in grown-up’s clothing? Won’t I look boring?’ I panic. Inevitably I dump the neutrals, and come home with bags and bags of leopard-print, whimsical jewellery and other full-on tinker tat.
Recently, realising I needed professional help I instagrammed some of my more dubious outfits including this one and awaited the wrath of my more fashiony friends.
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Alisande Fitzsimons, a writer and stylist, diplomatically labelled it ‘the quirky Bet Gilroy’ and advised me to remove one accessory. 'Coco Chanel wasn’t messing when she said "Before you walk out of the door take one thing off,”' she said, darkly.
Meanwhile, writer/social media person Sarah Drinkwater was not a fan of my headband: 'Some things are best kept as a reminder of your earlier self. Love the cardie and lipstick on you, though.'
I repeated Sarah and Alisande’s words like a mantra, and bought myself a more sober outfit:
'Nice use of grown-up neutrals,' Alisande approved – but we both knew that the real test lay elsewhere. Gingerly I approached the counter at Boots, clutching a packet of Halls Soothers I didn’t need. I searched for a trace of recognition in the pharmacist’s eyes, but there was none. He opened his mouth.
'Call me ‘ma’am’,' I silently willed him. 'Call me ma’am.'
He did! Success? On the one hand. On the other, it’s a bit weird when someone calls you ‘ma’am’. Makes you feel, well, old. I’ve changed back into my leopard-print for now. One step at a time, eh?
Follow Robyn on Twitter @orbyn
This article originally appeared on The Debrief.