There I was, this last time at La Jolie Garde Robe, squealing while touching a vintage Balenciaga dress, and then squealing when I found a true Saint Laurent safari jacket… and then squealing again seeing the price.
I still decided to try them on, and then let out a huge squeal.
I don’t know how they do it, the queens of the second-hand. With me, with my body, vintage just does nothing for it, even if the tag actually says my size. It’s all twisted on the hips and at the same time, it’s always too small, the waist is always too high with the elastic all out of place, the pants are too short, the skirts too long, the fabrics too thick, my shoulders too broad, i hate pants that close on the sides, there’s never a pair of shoes in my size, and the heels are always a really bizarre height, and the lines are always…. Hmmmmm…
Ouaaaaaaaais, almost but not quite.
And on top of that, I am utterly incapable of finding a seamstress who knows what she’s doing.
The only things that fall perfectly on me are men’s clothes. Thanks, that sure does make me feel good.
Seriously though, I don’t have anything in common with E.T. I almost never have to tailor ready-to-wear stuff. Whether it be from Zara or Stella, clothes, in general, fall relatively well on me. So at first, I thought this whole vintage thing was normal. I broadened my perspective. I told myself that the female body had changed and yada yada yada. But that was without counting all my friends that come tumbling out of Paris vintage shops with the most sublime finds.
Nope. The thing is this: I just don’t have a vintage body. Voilà. That’s it. Poof! How stupid is that?!
Translation : Tim Padraic Sullivan