Today's guest blogger is Steve, who I first met when I attended 'Cardiff Read', an informal book club that I joined a few months ago. On his blog where he shares his musings and photographs, Steve describes himself as a "proud father, loving husband, digital geek and rugby nut". When he's not doing the above, then he's out running and drawing pictures with GPS.Here Steve gives us his view on women and style:
My name’s Steve Dimmick. I’m 36 years old and I'm not a fashion addict. However, in LouLou’s absence I am providing a guest post that’s going to stand out like a year-old, washed-out Primark vest amidst all the Gucci and Chanel here.
I thought it would be worthwhile for you dedicated followers of fashion and of course LouLouMuses to get a viewpoint from someone who’s not so much gawping at what’s coming down the runway this season, as wondering where the airport is.
You see I just don’t get fashion. Especially
, women’s fashion.
You see I just don’t get fashion. Especially
I write this sat in a bay-window, looking out on Cardiff’s fashion-conscious populace, who in turn are cringing on seeing me: I’m wearing a tired old tee-shirt and a pair of shorts that have palm-tree prints on them. They were the first pair I grabbed this morning and are remnants of a long-passed, surf themed, stag-do.
So, whilst I look like the kids dressed me, my wife always looks great in “this season’s hottest styles”. Apparently.
|Do not take fashion advice from this man. You have been warned.|
My wife has an amazing set of pins; seriously stunning. So, 6 months ago why did she buy a pair of, what I believe are called, hareem trousers? They were a satiny cross between jogging bottoms, zip jeans and MC Hammer's pyjamas and did absolutely nothing for her. (Disclaimer: I did, of course, tell her she looked great in them; I’m not an idiot!) But, in all honesty, they just levelled the playing field; hidden within this billowing pair of Trojan Horse trousers might have been something that would make Elle MacPherson purr with delight on Britain's Next Top Model or a brace of wrinkly, old, elephant legs.
Conversely, there’s the experience I went through at Reading Festival a few weeks back. It seems that whilst disguising your curves was all the rage last winter, this summer you should unleash your wares on the unsuspecting public. That’s right, after my younger brother bought me a weekend ticket for Reading as a belated birthday – not something I really wanted, oh no, but he really needed a partner in grime, so it was what I got – I pitched up expecting to see a variety of cagoules, waterproof trousers and wellies. Whilst the latter were in full effect, the leg wear de rigueur was cut off denim shorts.
For those of you, like me, not in the know, the Reading Festival crowd is predominantly made up of kids who have just got their GCSE results and are unaware of the effect alcohol has on your body. This meant there were hundreds of teenage girls stumbling around in cut off Levi's and wellingtons. As a virile father of two, I’ll admit that on day one when, out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glance of a bum-cheek poking out of said cut-offs, I’d turn to appreciate the whole view. Only to swiftly realise I could be the subject’s father and subsequently hold my head in shame. This happened a few times, before I managed to adjust my mind to the tricks being played on it. Subsequently though, on seeing a group of said buttocks on show (collective noun suggestions for buttocks welcomed...) I began to realise that such is the female of the species’ dedication to fashion that it wasn't just the pert, lithe creatures that had deigned to wear these shorts, but also their peer-pressured curvier and, let's be frank, lumpier mates. God loves a trier, but deary me, even religion isn't an excuse for the crimes mine eyes were subjected to.
In short, and in conclusion, whilst I haven’t the foggiest about fashion, I think that in the vast majority of circumstances, many wannabe lady fashionistas could do with a dose of common sense.
You’ve all tried stuff on and looked in a shop mirror and said, “You know what? This really suits me”. However, much more often I’d wager, your mind's saying (you never speak the bad stuff out loud), “Hmmm, I'm not really sure this is me after all”. But you still purchase anyway. Wear it once; nobody says anything good or bad, you realise they were being polite and it gets banished to a hanger in the recesses of your wardrobe(s)...
So, next time you’re teetering, quite literally, on the edge of buying a new pair of snake-skin, 7 inch heels, to go with tweed trousers or somesuch, have a good, honest word with yourself and ask what you’d say to your (ideally similarly shaped) mate if they were wearing it. If it’s a polite nothing, walk away, walk away, walk away.
LouLou says: Thanks Steve for your take on women's style. I knew you had a fashion critic inside you just dying to get out!