Previously
on Shebytches...Pixie has documented her hatred of cool,
resulting in many attempts to piss in the winds of fashion.
But now, she finds that fashion has caught up with her.
Ignore
the fact that I am writing this column while wearing flannel
pajamas and woolly socks, on a 3 1/2 year old iBook at a
kitchen table in sub-zero suburbia.
Imagine
instead that I am (having stolen my brother’s video
iPod and extremely funky, yet warm, Zoo York Heidi hat)
out at some cool London private member’s bar. I am
reclining on a sofa surrounded by literati and mediati (?),
perusing Conrad Black’s rag, the Daily Telegraph (well,
obviously. I mean, my significant other/ partner/snuggling
person writes for it when he’s not wowing kids and
other imaginative people with the exploits of martial arts
cats). Just as my apple martini (who am I kidding? My apple
and cinnamon tea) arrives, I glance at the top of the front
page.
There
it is. "New outfits for New Year’s." And
the model is wearing… MY DRESS. The one I actually
purchased to wear. In a cottage in Cornwall, surrounded
by my best friends (if having one on either side of me counts
as ‘surrounded’). I feel like a total glamazon
from Glamazonia. Of course, on the model the dress looks
all seventies folk musician smack addict drapy long hair
sexiness, while on me it looks like a nursery nurse’s
smock. But still.
I
rule the fashion world. Not only that, but the dress comes
with matching knickers. So even my ass rules.
In
fact, I found the dress (and underdress garment) on the
very day that I visited a store named after me. An organic
make-up and beauty care store in the heart of London’s
Carnaby Street (as immortalised in Austin Powers 2: The
Spy Who Shagged Me). I’m serious. OK, the store
is called Pixi. But it was on TV and everything.
I
didn’t buy anything there because the assistant was
scarily perfect, but it smelt like a very nice shop and
if I were a make-up wearer, then the pots of glitter and
special organic glue to hold it on would have tempted me
into a buying frenzy. Instead, I wandered happily along
the cobbled streets, on a merry mom-sponsored shopping trip
(which is cool, OK? Sometimes there are even celebrity
encounters. With their moms.)
And
there it was. The dress. In the window of Dispensary, a
teeny tiny shop full of excitingly shiny things and the
friendliest service I’ve encountered (my place of employment
notwithstanding). Which is weird, because most salespeople
in London are trained to pretend that you don’t exist,
and if you force yourself into their field of vision, then
they tell you, through gestures of perfectly manicured eyebrows,
that you are interfering with the sculptural displays of
unwearable clothing they have just — just! —
arranged. Although I find them less annoying than Toronto
salespeople, who are all clearly competing for Liar of the
Year awards ("Oh no! You’re totally a small. That’s
not a roll of fat, that’s belt enhancement.")
So
the deed was done (after copious trying-on and excitement
abounding when the small-from-the-window fitted, then amazed
discovery of matching undies, then the need for a jacket
to cover entirely sheer dress from December chills). And
a mere two weeks later, as I pack for the New Year escape
from the city (transport strike in London, hmm, sounds sooooooo
fun), I discover that I am in possession of the It
dress.
Ahem.
Let’s revise the scenario of the discovery, just so
I can maintain my position of total unfashionability. I
was wearing a little backless number in charming polyester
with one of those crazy pastel prints designed to conceal
the spillage of bodily fluids. Attempting to burn time while
waiting for the doctor to deign to see me, I was reading
over the shoulder of an elderly gentleman who returned the
compliment by looking over my shoulder at my lovely granny
knickers. Called in for an alien probe, I lie there with
the cold air on my bare ass (why are hospitals all so cold?
Do they want you to get sick? What a scam!), and
dream of my time as queen of Glamazonia.
he