MY sartorial style is something like ‘tomboy’ meets ‘half-hearted Audrey from Twin Peaks’ meets ‘still-got-my-rockabilly-wardrobe from my twenties’.
Given that I’ve now got less than two months to write about me, me and me, I decide to see what another woman makes of ME.
Adele is a professional stylist who moonlights as a personal shopper. I meet her in giganto-mall Chadstone; a complex stuffed with designer labels. She leads me to Sportsgirl.
No, that’s okay, really. I do shop at Sportsgirl. And clearly Adele thinks I deserve to.
I tell Adele I want her to pick out what shapes and colours she thinks will suit me, and that I’m totally willing to be open minded.
As if to test this theory, Adele immediately picks out revolting tan stretch pants made of some kind of shiny material, and an orange net top. The idea is that these autumnal colours will warm up my pallor.
I wind up trying on a variety of coloured blouses my mother would balk at, and pants – all of which have a low-hanging gusset.
I do learn a useful piece of advice from Adele and a saleswoman, though: cat’s whiskers across a pussy are okay (that’s the wrinkles across said gusset), but camel toe’s a no. Repeat after me, girls!
I’ll file that little nugget alongside “I must, I must, I must improve my bust.”
Keeper? No.
Hey man, now you're really living 
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