Me and my wardrobe

When I was nine-years-old, I vividly remember wanting to dress like Kate Moss. I was never interested in polished editorial shoots; it was her off-duty looks that mesmerised me. I’d violently flick through my mum’s gossip magazines to find paparazzi snaps of Kate wading through Glastonbury or falling out of the Groucho Club. Always brandished with a cigarette and Pete Doherty, she encapsulated British indie culture before I even knew what it was.

My wardrobe soon became an ode to Kate. An early-developer, I could fit into Topshop at ten-years-old – which was just in time for the supermodel’s 2007 collaboration. I stocked up on low-rise skinny jeans and androgynous waist coasts, which skimmed my prepubescent figure. Even as a little girl, fitting into a coveted size 6 gave me a rush. This is perhaps unsurprising when confronted with The Body Image Centre’s finding that “81 per cent of 10-year-olds are afraid of being fat”.

When puberty slapped me across the face in Year Eight and my mosquito bites erupted into DDs, I felt cheated. The Kates, Alexas and Pixies of the world didn’t have to worry about finding clothes that would ‘flatter’ their lady lumps, so why did I? When I wore slinky vest tops now, I just got beeps and glares. My muffin top also spilled over my stonewashed hipsters in a way that Kate’s didn’t.

As my curves continued protruding into my teenage years, I finally surrendered at 16: a sartorial revamp was in order. Throughout my teens, size 6 garments were soon replaced with size 8, then 10, then 12. Kate’s infamous mantra, “Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels”, rang through my adolescence. Nonetheless, I soon stopped my juice cleanses when boys started gawping in school corridors and my Ask.fm filled up with anonymous questions about my bra size. I concluded that whilst my body didn’t lend itself to ‘heroin chic’, sex was a niche I could fill.

By 17, my wardrobe was brimming with hot pants and plunging V-neck leotards. Whilst I was being persistently reminded by the Daily Mail that women must either show legs or boobs, I threw caution to the wind. Although I began to merge into a quasi-sex doll who had been styled by the girls on TOWIE, my love for the effortless chic of waif-like ‘90s supermodels never faded. I just told myself that I wasn’t thin enough to be cool.

Maia Tassalini Collins, 24-year-old curve model and all-round icon, tells me over Zoom that it’s taken years to build the confidence to wear what she wants. I’m barely listening as I lose myself in her afghan coat and silk bandana get-up. I snap myself out of it and Maia further explains: “The ‘jolly fat person’ trope exists at all levels of society, including curve modelling. The style for shoots I do is happy and homely. There’s no space for curve to be cool or editorial.”

This resonates. When I arrived at Bristol University in 2015 with knicker shorts akimbo, I was greeted by a horde of sickeningly stylish rich kids who looked like they’d been pulled from the pages of Dazed & Confused. I was not in North London anymore. My Tits McGee persona was no longer viable, but I was also never going to fit into crochet halter-necks. So, what’s a girl to do other than wear oversized men’s T-shirts, leopard print leggings and colossal fluffy coats for three years?

It wasn’t until I was on my Australian ‘gap yah’ in 2019 that I finally found an equilibrium. It may have been something to do with my constant tan or the unavoidable bikini situation, but I became more at ease with my curves. With this acceptance came the confidence to wear whatever the f*** I wanted. I spent my call centre wage on vintage finds: green flares, arse-skimming micro skirts, New Rock goth boots. There were no boundaries – and no going back to dressing to please.

Looking in my wardrobe now, I see a journey (both psychologically and globally). It is more reminiscent of a tropical bird sanctuary than Kate’s closet but, in 2021, I can wholeheartedly say there is no-one else’s wardrobe I’d rather have.