The Rules Were Made Up: In Defence of Leather Jackets & Sequinned Trousers
Every week I seem to stumble across another article telling me what I should and shouldn't be wearing by now. Ten Things to Stop Wearing After 40. How to Dress Your Age. The Wardrobe Mistakes Everyone Over 50 Makes. I always click on them with a tiny flicker of optimism, convinced this might finally be the one that says, "Wear whatever makes you feel fabulous." It never is. Instead, leather jackets have apparently reached their expiry date, sequins need to be worn responsibly and anything remotely joyful comes with a disclaimer. I don't remember voting on it, but apparently getting older means becoming more unremarkable
I'd genuinely love to know where these decisions are made because somebody, somewhere, is clearly making them on behalf of the rest of us. In my mind it's a beige chamber somewhere in suburban Britain. The fluorescent lights buzz, someone can't get the projector to work and there's a plate of plain Digestives that's been sitting there since 9.15am. A cup of stale Earl Grey has developed that peculiar skin tea gets when it's been forgotten about. A man adjusts his lanyard, clears his throat and welcomes everyone to this month's meeting of the Fashion Rules Committee. "First item," he announces. "Leather jackets after forty." A few solemn nods follow. "Sequins before 6pm." Carried unanimously. They adjourn for plain Digestives, somehow even drier than the meeting itself, and aggressively mediocre tea, before reconvening next month to discuss the ongoing threat posed by metallic loafers.
I remain deeply curious about their recruitment process.
The funny thing is, I think most of us have spent years listening to them without even realising it. As a personal stylist, one of the first things I hear from clients isn't usually, "I don't like that." It's, "I couldn't wear that." I always want to ask, "According to who?" Who exactly decided bright pink has an age limit? When was the memo circulated advising leather jackets were no longer appropriate? Was there a public consultation? Did I accidentally miss the referendum? We seem to have accepted these invisible rules without ever questioning who wrote them in the first place.
One of the biggest misconceptions about personal styling is that I spend my days persuading people to wear things they'd never normally choose. I don't. If someone tells me they could never wear heels, I'm not marching into the fitting room carrying a six-inch stiletto like it's some sort of fashion intervention. More often, I'll hand them a beautifully made three-inch slingback that works just as effortlessly with denim as it does with a dress. Five minutes later they're wandering around the fitting room wondering why they'd ruled them out for so many years. A few weeks later, it becomes the shoe they wear every weekend.
The goal was never to change their style. It was simply to remind them they were more stylish than they'd given themselves credit for. I was just there to introduce them to each other.
People often ask me what my style is, as though you're allocated one aesthetic for life and changing your mind requires written approval. The truth is, I dress for how I feel that day. Sometimes that's beautifully tailored trousers and a blazer sharp enough to cut glass. Other days it's relaxed denim and trainers. Occasionally it's sequinned trousers because, quite frankly, life sometimes calls for sequinned trousers. I don't think style is about pledging lifelong allegiance to one look. We don't eat the same meal every day. We don't listen to the same song every morning... well, I might. So why would we expect our wardrobe to remain frozen in time? Thank goodness I don't dress the way I did in my twenties. I'd be far more worried if I hadn't evolved.
I've lost count of the number of times I've been told I'm overdressed. Sometimes it's a compliment. Sometimes it's an insult wearing a compliment's coat. It's usually over coffee or brunch, while they're in activewear and I'm wearing whatever made me happy that morning. Oddly enough, I've never once felt compelled to return the feedback.
That's probably why I always admired Iris Apfel. Not because I ever wanted to dress exactly like her. I'd have needed planning permission for half her jewellery. What I admired was that she never looked like she was dressing for anybody else's approval. There was a twinkle in her eye that suggested she'd politely received every recommendation from the Fashion Rules Committee before filing it straight in the recycling. She dressed because it delighted her, and I always thought there was something wonderfully liberating about that. The same goes for beautifully executed streetwear, immaculate tailoring, quiet minimalism or someone whose wardrobe consists almost entirely of black. None of those aesthetics is more stylish than another. What I admire is when someone wears them with complete conviction because that's who they are that day.
Maybe that's what style really is. Not finding one look and sticking with it forever, but allowing it to evolve as you do. Fashion should make you smile occasionally. It should surprise you. It should feel like an extension of who you are rather than a performance for everyone else. If that happens to involve a leather jacket at sixty, sequinned trousers on a Tuesday or a beautifully cut suit for brunch, I genuinely fail to see the problem.
The Fashion Rules Committee will no doubt continue meeting. They'll keep issuing guidance, reviewing leather jackets and debating whether sequins should remain an evening-only affair. Good luck to them.
As for me, I've got brunch to get to, and I suspect I'm already in breach of several regulations.
