Makeover, Grand Finale

Read part 1, part 2 and part 3 of this story. 

If you have followed my sartorial confessions, you are dying to know how my Grand Shopping Day went. It started yesterday when I met Jane at Morag's to make plans. I had taken pictures of my existing wardrobe, which was painful because going through them I saw only too well how I was stuck in the safe black-trousers-neutral-three-size-too-big-top business. Amazingly – or probably not at all – Jane picked up the only pic in which I like myself, which is my dark green evening gown. Everything else she rightfully dismissed, but in a very pedagogical way, like I would do with a student essay, asking: “Now tell me, what's wrong with this?” or “What are you trying to do with this outfit?” And I had to admit, over and over again, that I was trying to hide myself. Which I thought I had stopped doing after Julia pointed it out for me, some years ago.

I went home and went to bed, deciding never to get up again.

However, the fatal hour inevitably arrived, and ten minutes to ten this morning I was sitting outside East shop on Sidney street, with my phone on (so unlike me) hoping against hope that Jane would call to cancel the whole thing. At the same time I was full of joyful anticipation and sort of curious about what she may have in mind. In fact, East is my favourite shop, so I was glad she had chosen it as the first port of call.

And we both saw a scarf. We had discussed scarves and agreed that they make a lot of difference, but my usual safe strategy would be to get a scarf that would go with everything. Not a daring scarf. Not a dazzling scarf.

Side comment: I'd like to know, honestly, how many women, young and mature, recognise my feelings. This is so private and so sensitive that we perhaps discuss this with our closest friend and not even then going to the core of it. I know that for many women shopping is second nature. But I am sure I am not the only one for whom it is a torture.

Back to the plot. Do you remember the wonderful old movie Ninochka, when she has returned to Russia and is telling her friend that in Paris she had a hat that she would be ashamed to wear in Moscow. The friend: “As beautiful as that!” This scarf was so beautiful I would be ashamed to wear it a year ago, but you see, I won't now! I will wear it, and another one, proudly, and I'll spend hours in front of the mirror training to tie them in the most elaborate way. But of course scarves were just the beginning. Skirts, trousers, jackets, blouses, tops, dresses – in colour combinations I would never dare to put together myself. The only rules: no black, no off-white. “Shame, said Eeyore, my favourite colour”.

As I was trying on a dress, one of the shop assistants who had been watching us closely said: “There is a customer over there who saw you in this dress and thought it was so pretty she's going to try it”. Remember this, said Jane. Remember that a total stranger thought you were pretty.

Suddenly it was half past eleven, and I felt I could kill for a cup of coffee. Half past eleven is an hour past my coffee time, that's how busy I had been. And we hadn't even been on the top floor!

After coffee we combed the top floor, and I was tempted to get another full outfit, trousers, jacket, top and scarf, in a different colour scheme (and I think I'll go back and get it next week). Meanwhile, we also got a pair of shoes and a handbag. Wow, I had never in my life owned a pair of blue shoes. Isn't it about time I had a pair of blue shoes to go with my blue skirt?

It was by then an hour past my lunchtime, and I asked Jane where she would like to go for lunch. She said: “Surprise me”, and I suggested, unimaginatively, Jamie's. She said she had been to Jamie's and didn't like it. We went to Carluccio, but they had a huge queue, so we ended up at Jamie's anyway, and Jane had to admit that it was an excellent choice. So I have made a little contribution too to the enlightenment of humankind.

The rest felt a bit of an anticlimax as we wandered all over the city centre, me carrying two huge shopping bags, popping into shop after shop, until I realised that Jane wasn't just browsing. She was consistently searching for something she had made up her mind I must have, and it was a pink jacket. Not in my worst nightmare can I imagine myself wearing a pink jacket or a pink anything, but when we finally found The Pink Jacket I was devastated that they didn't have it in my size. What would my old self do? Either buy the wrong size or cry invisible tears. But my new self! My new self went home and ordered the right size on the web.

Makeover, part 3

Read the first and second part of this story.

Now comes the difficult bit. I don't think Staffan gave much thought to my wardrobe, but if he thought I looked like a poor relative from the countryside, he never showed it. The presents he brought me were of practical nature: a pretty nightgown, a pair of corduroy trousers that were high fashion then, a soft sweater with Nordic pattern. My workmates, who were initiated in my secret relationship – as a faithful Soviet citizen, you were not supposed to fall in love with foreigners – would ask, with envy in their voices: “What did he bring you this time?” and would get tremendously disappointed. Looking back, I don't think I was disappointed because I wanted books more than clothes, and my friends' expectations made me still more reluctant toward any material tokens of affection. If I wanted anything, I would be too proud to ask.

Packing to move to Sweden, I felt ambivalent, and again, my friends' comments were not helpful. You will buy everything new there, they said. And I gave away clothes, shoes and accessories. On the other hand, I definitely didn't want to come to Sweden as a beggar bride, so I bought some nice new things. For certain reasons I was going on a guest visa, therefore I couldn't ship anything, but travelled with two suitcases and my eight-year-old son.

Staffan wasn't too tactful about my trousseau. He threw away my Czech winter boots which he said stank of rubber; he said nobody in Sweden had fur hats, and in the first place he said my son's clothes were ridiculous, so the first thing I did was get him things just like other kids had. I had been allowed to change a little money which was about enough to equip him and get me a pair of more appropriate winter boots. Don't misunderstand me. I am sure Staffan would have given me as much money as he could afford if I had asked, but I was too proud to ask. Before we met I could support myself and my son, and suddenly I was wholly at someone else's will.

Staffan was renting a house cheaply from a very rich friend who right at the time of our arrival had cleared her wardrobes and had a huge pile of clothes on the lounge floor, to be collected by Salvation Army. I salvaged half of the pile and not only wore the clothes myself, but sent some back to Moscow when I could.

My mother-in-law told me many years later that she felt sorry for me then because I had so poor clothes. She was especially referring to my French haute couture sheepskin coat, made of patches of various shades of brown and beige. She thought I was so poor I had to sew my own winter coat from leftover bits.

Then I was pregnant, and the problem was solved for a while as I bought a maternity tunic and wore it with different T-shirts (from the pile). My granny came to stay with us that summer and reported back home that we were very poor and that I only had one dress. The latter was true because I did wear the same maternity tunic all the time. The former was a matter of reference frames. Staffan wasn't a millionaire, as all Russians thought all foreigners were, but he paid two child allowances, and I had no income at all. We rented this huge seventeenth-century mansion, but we had no furniture to fill it with, so it did look a bit miserable. And I thought I had stronger priorities than clothes. But when we went to Moscow first time, after a year and a half, I felt I couldn't wear the same clothes I had when I left, so I got some new outfits. It was early '80s, with pastel colours and soft cotton and linnen. My Moscow friend Alyona told me afterwards that her workmates had asked whether her Swedish friend also walked around in faded pyjama bottoms, like all other foreigners. Which was exactly what I did. I suppose my Moscow friends were shocked at my poor taste, now that I was rich and could buy silks and velvets.

Most clothes I bought in those days came from mail order. Most of my children's clothes I made myself, except for Sergej's. He had enough reasons to be bullied in school. When my parents started visiting us regularly, they would always bring clothes (and other presents) that we didn't want because they looked ridiculous in Sweden. They would bring me a mink hat, and I had to explain about animal rights, because otherwise they would have brought me a mink coat next time. They got this idea that we were in need, and I didn't know how to tell them to stop bringing tablecloths and towels and tea sets and ugly soft toys. Whenever I went to Moscow, my mother would call her seamstress who would make a dress or a jacket for me. A few years later I would take them back to Moscow and give them away. Then I would buy heaps of cheap clothes at sales and bring them to Moscow for friends and cousins. It was all upside down and made no sense at all.

My way of dealing with it was to tell myself and anyone who was listening that we had other priorities. We travelled a lot. This made my Russian friends shut up. Although they still wondered why I couldn't have everything now that I lived abroad, where, as everyone knows, streets are paved with gold.

To be continued.

No strings attached

I am getting a masters degree from Cambridge. 

I don't know why I am doing it, but my general instinct is: if I am entitled to anything, be it a degree or a free drink, I'll take it.

In fact, I don't have a masters degree. I have a diploma from a five-year programme at a Russian university, which I believe corresponds to a Western masters. In Sweden, I did the final term of a bachelor's degree and wrote a thesis, on which basis I was accepted directly into a PhD programme. Masters degree was introduced later.

So I have a PhD, but I am getting a masters. There is a regulation in Cambridge allowing you a generic masters degree after three years of faithful service. Hopefully, I will never have any use of this degree, but who knows? And it'll be fun. I have for some time looked at pictures from my students' graduation ceremonies and stated, with some envy, that I'd never experience anything like that (mind, I graduated twice in Stockholm City Hall, the venue of the Nobel banquet). But now I will.

For the ceremony, I need a gown (master status without strings) and a hood. I have a master gown without strings which I bought for the first Formal Hall in Cambridge, almost four years ago. It was a very good investment, as I have worn it regularly since then. The strings that I had to cut off are in the drawer of my dressing table, in case I ever need them. The hood I will have to hire from Diagon Alley... ahm, from local robemakers.

The dress code specifies what you are allowed to wear, to the smallest detail. For instance: “Stockings or tights should be worn and should be black or nearly black and without a pattern”. Or: “The only jewellery permitted are wedding and engagement rings”. I wonder whether my doctor's ring can pass for an engagement ring. But I'd better take no risks. “Earrings must be small studs only – the dangling type must not be worn.” What about nose studs and rings? Not that I have any. “Neither coloured nail varnish nor heavy make-up should be worn”. How heavy is “heavy”?

The degree will be awarded “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit”. Those who have problems with this can be excused, on special application. I will need to decide by tomorrow.

Makeover, part 2

Read the first part of this tale.

When I got married I was determined not to accept any help from my parents, but of course it didn't work. We could pretend as much as we wanted that we were independent, but when it came to clothes I was still totally in my mother's hands. Then I was divorced and got a job. My salary was just enough to buy a pair of winter boots, but then the saying was: “May you only have your salary to live on”. Everybody had extra sources of income. I worked as interpreter, translator, reviewer – anything I could get. A book translation could yield as much as three yearly salaries, which was weird, but then everything was weird back in those days.

The huge problem was that the dress code at my work place said: never wear the same outfit twice. So apart from having to show off brands you also had to keep track of what you were wearing and create variation with mixing and matching. But the real solution was to swap. All friends swapped clothes, that's what friends are for! During the periods when I was on speaking terms with my mother, we would swap clothes all the time, especially for parties. She would also allow me to sell her clothes and shoes after I had worn them, and keep the money to get new clothes. By that time I had my own network on the black market.

I also started travelling abroad to the paradise of Eastern Europe: Poland, Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, which in our eyes were rich and plentiful beyond imagination. During these trips, I would save every penny, eating as little and as cheap as I could, to buy clothes – although I did go to museums and theatres and travelled around. And I never brought back clothes to sell, at least not until I had got tired of them. During one trip with my work colleagues we brought vodka and cigarettes and sold to a very suspicious shop on the edge of the shopping area. I am still ashamed of it. This is as low as I have ever fallen.

To be continued.

Makeover

In case you missed it, among the remarkable presents I received for my birthday was a personal shopper. When Morag announced it at my reception, my first thought was: “Oh my god, are they saying that I have such a bad taste in clothes that I need assistance?” I hope that they didn't mean it so, but still this unusual present has provided some food for thought.

I have now met my personal shopper, Jane, to talk through our plans, and in a way it was as strong a shock as a session in therapy. She asked me about my colour preferences, and what kind of clothes I have and feel comfortable with, and how many pairs of shoes I have, and whether I wear jewellery, and how long it takes me in the morning to decide what to wear. And I told her that I hated pink and yellow, that since thirty years ago I always wear sensible shoes, that shopping is a nightmare, and that I am highly aware of what I am wearing because I myself always watch what other people are wearing. And that I was open for all ideas and prepared for a total makeover.

Since she is obviously a professional, she seemed to understand everything I was saying. As we parted, agreeing that I would take pictures of myself in different outfits, I couldn't but go on thinking about my complex sartorial attitudes.

I have some pictures of myself as a very young child wearing unbelievably ugly clothes, but it was over fifty years ago and in a country where consumer goods were not the first and not even second priority. But I also have pictures – and memories – of very pretty clothes, which, as I realise now, originated from a skeleton in the family wardrobe and stopped when the skeleton was removed. After that, my mother or the family seamstress made most of my clothes. Some were horrible scratchy knitted things that I hated. But most of them were, looking back, quite nice – only they were different. Nobody I knew had pleated skirts, nobody had winter coats with fur-trimmed hoods, other girls didn't wear trousers. I really admire my mother who managed to get me decent outfits, but she never asked me whether I liked my clothes, and the few times I refused to put something on she called me an ungrateful pig. Mind, my mother was always elegant, at home, at work, at parties and on holidays. I set my standards after her.

When I was fourteen, one of my mother's friends said to her: “Why does your daughter always wear such ugly clothes? She is a young lady, you must get her nice things”. Which resulted in my mother getting me nice things on the black market, which I know was not cheap. She even got me a pair of Levi's which must have cost a fortune. Just to give you an idea: a pair of jeans or a pair of boots cost about an average monthly salary. Don't ask me how people managed. To complement clothes from the black market, we all went on knitting (when we could get hold of wool) and making dresses, blouses, skirts and even trousers (when we could get hold of fabrics). Patterns were valuable and generously shared, as were buttons, hooks, zippers and ribbons.

But there were many things you couldn't make that suddenly became fashionable, like turtle-neck shirts or even T-shirts, net stockings, leather coats and jackets, and of course shoes and boots were always a problem. Everybody knew the black market prices, so wearing certain clothes was a matter of prestige. Tights were tremendously expensive, even when they were occasionally available in shops (I mean, expensive as in a tenth of your salary), therefore trousers came as a blessing: you could always wear tights with ladders under trousers. It took, however, years before trousers were accepted as women's attire. I remember I wore trousers in my second university year and was considered exceptionally brave. I wasn't expelled though, which could easily had happened some years before. 

To anticipate the question where things came from, I hurry to say: I don't know. There was always a friend of a friend of a friend. When there was something on offer you bought it whether you needed it or not, because there would always be someone who wanted it. You didn't think whether the piece fit with what you had. You weren't particular about sizes or colours.

If you think all this makes one's attitudes to clothes somewhat traumatic, you are absolutely right.

To be continued.

Blog challenge Day 14 : What you wore today

I don't know whether the repetition of this subject is intentional, but surely it makes a difference since last time it was on the weekend, and today is a working day. My working uniform is, most days, black pants, a top or shirt, jacket and a scarf. Highly unimaginative academic clothes. I like pants because I can wear sensible shoes and do not have to think about tights, which I am always anxious will get a ladder in a most conspicuous place. So it's much safer with pants. Black pants go with almost anything, and I have a variety of jackets, but I don't have to think about wearing different clothes every day. This was a pain in my old-old country, where you had to invent something new each time you went to work, which in my case was no more than twice a week, but even with a huge wardrobe you soon ran out of options. That's why it was so popular to trade clothes with your friends.

My current solution is wearing the same clothes and taking the risk of being extremely boring for the students. I am sure they say after the class: “Did you notice? She is wearing that old top again”. I know they at least make mental notes, because I do with other people. Especially if you have to watch them for two hours.

I have only recently developed a taste for scarves and learned the various ways of wearing them. Today's scarf is a present from an Oriental guest and makes a huge difference against a dark jacket. Wait a minute, I didn't wear a jacket at all today! It's one of my jacketless days when I feel a bit more relaxed and allow myself a jersey instead.

Tonight I am going to a formal dinner, and the invitation says “casual smart”. I have already written two blog posts on this particular dress code, so I won't do it again.

Blog challenge Day 12 – What’s in your bag

I don't have a bag, but I hope a backpack counts. I stopped carrying bags many years ago after I read about how a bag gets your body off balance. Even a set of keys in your pocket is harmful. So I have a sensible canvas black backpack that goes with everything. My only requirement is that an A4 folder can be fit into it. In the main compartment I have my diary, books (for some reason, I always carry books to and from work and between buildings at work) and my wallet. In the inner pocket I have my mobile phone – always switched off! - compact powder, lipstick, comb, USB stick and a field pharmacy. In the outer pocket, I have my keys, university card, a fancy Oriental business card holder (a present of course) and an assortment of pens. I am horrible with pens. No idea giving me an expensive Parker, I'll lose it just as easy as a promotion ballpoint. I am very careful about putting everything in the right compartment because if I don't I'll never find it. Every now and then I panic because I cannot find my keys or my card. Almost every time I have put it in the wrong place.

Tonight I went to Formal Hall, and I don't want to carry more than absolutely necessary with me. Fortunately, I can put my car key into the sleeve of my gown!

Blog challenge Day 10: What you wore today

When Marilyn Monroe was asked what she wore in bed she said: “Chanel no 5”. I do not wear perfume specifically in bed, but I wear perfume, and my favourite is Anaïs Anaïs.

I wear two rings on my left ring finger. One is a plain gold ring which is my wedding ring. When I announced my engagement to my workmates thirty plus years ago in Russia, they said: “Is your fiancé stingy? Why didn't he give you a more solid one?” But I wanted a plain, slender one. I wear it on my left ring finger because such is the Swedish custom. In Russia I would have worn it on my right hand. If I wore it on my left hand I would be either widowed or divorced. That's basic semiotics. My other ring is my doctoral ring and has a pattern of laurel leaves. The uninformed perhaps think it's an engagement ring or something like that. But with the knowledge of the semiotic code, you can read my ring as the sign of a doctoral degree in humanities from Stockholm University. So I wear my dignity day and night.

Otherwise, since it is Sunday, I am wearing gray tracksuit pants and a gray hoodie, warm gray socks and Ecco sandals.