Mystery of the Missing Shoulder

I grew up believing that the egalitarian, fashion-free, gender-equal utopia aboard the Starship Enterprise was a microcosm of the real world. Long before that vision was dashed, I received a rude awakening of the sartorial kind. When I was a little ‘un, our family went weekly to a local shopping precinct. One Saturday, we were strolling up and down, enjoying the day and gathering our purchases when a ripple of laughter running through the crowd caught our attention.
It was almost a medieval scene, the shoppers pausing in their business to stare at and lampoon a young man. Nothing remarkable about him except that the trousers he wore consisted of one navy-blue leg and one white leg. Young children, matrons, adult men, all tittered and wondered at this sight. The wonder of this story is, of course, our wonder, our sheer lack of sophistication. We really had never seen anything like it before. I remember thinking that maybe the tailor hadn’t enough of either navy or white fabric, and had cobbled together a garment made of left over pieces – in which case, the trousers were very innovative indeed. This is the same mindset with which my Mum regards those tops and dresses that have one shoulder cut away: it looks like they hadn’t enough cloth to finish the garment.
The Day of the Trousers pitched me into a lifetime of conservative dressing, a state from which I have never emerged. Over the years, I have bemusedly observed the procession of fads and fashions that contribute to the montage of life; the ripped and torn, the faded and distressed, the uneven hemlines and faux patches, without so much as a pang of longing - or a missing shoulder.

Leg zone or battle zone?

It is a commonly accepted thing that female fashion is always changing, and that women are obliged to go with the trend, or else be deemed second-class citizenry. I don’t know if this has anything to do with an extraordinary event involving me, a decade and a half, ago.

I had been made redundant and was dutifully doing the round of employment agencies. To mark the occasion and to counter the frightful weather at the time, I kitted me out in navy wool jacket and brand-new, ultra-conservative black Alexon trousers, teamed with flat, black shoes. I looked every inch – I thought – the creative professional hunting for the perfect position. One spring afternoon, during yet another agency interview, a chippy female recruitment consultant told me that I might increase my chances of employment if I was to wear a skirt.

When I had recovered my surprise, I pointed out the necessity of dressing for the weather, for serial pavement pounding, and the importance of not eroding one’s redundancy pile purchasing fripperies such as nylon tights. She waved my arguments away, insisting that the non-show of leg, from knee to ankle, greatly lessened a girl’s chances of worthwhile employment. When she had finished speaking, my interviewer stood up and moved from behind her desk to reveal her feet in slippers; not the elegant, heeled kind but the good, old carpet variety with fur about the rims – what was this? Comfort for her, and pain and suffering for me.

I stared pointedly at them, trying to cause her as much discomfort as possible, in return for the put-down she had thrown at me. I still gag at the surreality of the situation and of her argument, especially when I now see a tidal wave of women going to work in comfortable, sensible garments. I have lost touch with corporate employment and sincerely hope those days are over forever – but I’m not sexist. My next feature will be on the subject of that male manacle, the collar and tie. I promise.