My New Uniform

For the last week my outfit choices have centered around what I have with me that's clean, what will keep me warmest, and what is easiest to throw on at the crack of dawn. Needless to say I have felt largely uninspired, and as far from stylish as Jordan (boobs not included).

Trudging to work in my worn Topshop jeans, the riding boots that have never seen a stable, and my yellowing hair tied up in an equally yellowing hair band, I leave the flat feeling warm and comfortable, only to arrive in the staff room feeling grotty and unkempt.

It's a natural progression, however, that working with a uniform of black trousers, ill fitting shirt, and baseball cap, leads to thoughtless fashion and complacent repetition of certain items in the wardrobe. When I'm not working or working in a uniform-less job, I always get up early, scrupulously edit outfits, and ensure hair and make-up are imperfectly perfect. When you know you are going to spend the next eight hours head first in a popcorn hopper, it makes the afore mentioned nothing less than pointless.

On the walk to work I spot different people who clearly work in different professions. The office worker in her Next skirt suit. The Topshop worker with her inflated hair, and the ego to match. The black trouser brigade; most likely to work for the council. I wonder what category I would deem myself in, should I be able to look at me subjectively. On a good day I'd pass for snazzy journalist, on a bad day, being a popcorn scooper would seem like a promotion.

The whole business of business really dictates fashion choices way beyond the office. Don't get me wrong, I have seen some awful displays of work clothes while interning (no, not mine), but journalism is a profession that allows for a generous dose of Parisian dressing; Converse accepted. At times I am grateful of a uniform, something that equals us all, but decisions aside, dressing out with the stated is clearly much more of a self expression.

Tottering around New York called for a heel every day, and I learned to grin, bear it, and invest in a big enough bag for my flats. London required that I at least try to look as good as the InStyle girls, and Edinburgh was all about jeans and brogues; ultimate comfiness. You dress for your situation, but throwing on my dog haired jeans this morning, and staring down at my muddy boots, made me feel like a lousy follower of fashion.

I know we can't be perfect every single day, but I long for the day again that I look forward to getting up to dress. I want to feel the pain of my KG's. Drape myself in impractically long, sheer dresses. Dip dye my hair, and paint my nails.

I'm a journalist, and from now on my uniform will always be fashion.

Ash x