Transforming from Dag to Diva with Instyle Image

Pardon me, I am getting old and I am sorry that I may offend. There was a time in my life where I thought other people had issues when they cringed when they saw the lower part of my bum cheeks peeping out from underneath my dress. I believed that wearing a size 6 when I was a 12 would make me look thinner, it didn’t, so another cringe. Tight is better than loose – so hello fat rolls, cellulite and Bakers Delight, some buns are better kept within their bread baskets rather than on the rack.  I am not sure who I can blame for my logic – that wearing close to nothing would make me more appealing to the opposite sex, so yes, another cringe. Therefore, I spent my higher teen years and admittedly the start of this year looking like I was better off working behind the bar at Hooters than out in the big wide world carrying on in my daily life.

One year, a personal trainer and stylist later things have changed for the better, I hope, and apart for some over-analytical views of the world I may have some pearls of wisdom to share. Julie and I discussed appropriateness. With my current life in focus I didn’t consider anything outside of “now”. However, going to the Grand on Saturday night really was an eye opener and a shocking time warp. Before the age of self discovery we tend to stick to what we know or at least see. With the wind blowing and one week north from the coldest day in history, the girls rolled out in their summer dresses and lined up for at least an hour to get into the nightclub. The dress was uniform – fake tan, short dress, cleavage, heels. Forget colour and style. I never understood why guys never looked at me when I was young and wore my “uniform”, even though I was told I was attractive. I now see that it was because I looked like everyone else.

Like drinking, it seemed odd that I would wear anything different. After all if everyone is wearing it, it must be right. Right? I also never understood why guys would behave in ways that would suggest that girls were just a “one night affair” and didn’t come up and introduce themselves like true gentlemen.  The reality is, there is no Pretty Woman plot out there waiting to happen, and to attract respect one must not only treat others with such but also themselves in a way that shows respect for yourself. This is the same as dressing right for work or appropriately for a first meeting. I suppose women in bikinis in music video clips doesn’t set a great example for younger girls who are just at the stage of developing into young women. Not all attention is equal and some things are perhaps learnt the hard way.

Dressed in a tight red sweater dress with black stockings, I had enough drama to not only be Gaga but also a lady, which to me is important. And although I hadn’t really mastered the art of buying more comfortable shoes I went over to the bar to buy myself a drink. Engrossed in over-analysing, work matters and understanding where all of the feminists went, I didn’t see him come over.

“Hi, I am Andy” a cute guy appeared alongside me. He smiled and even offered for me to shake his hand, how gentleman like.

Surrounded by layers upon layers of silk and tulle Carrie Bradshaw sat in her Parisian apartment overlooking the Eiffel Tower. The fabric enveloped her fine pale body and complemented her cool tones. With every delicate move there was a sensual shuffle in the fabrics. A pair of strappy Manolos peeped out from underneath the dessert of fabric which was her dress.

It was the multiple episodes of Sex and the City and the gorgeous city lights of the Melbourne city that reignited my desire to power on towards my goal of becoming fabulous.  Maybe my fantasy was just that. Style and practically have never seemed to quite get along but rather like an old married couple they loved to quarrel until a happy medium could be established.  I don’t live in New York City or even Melbourne, so the concepts of “fabulous” and “uber- fashionable” seem somewhat out of place here in the small town of Adelaide. I wish I could splash through the puddles in my Jimmy Choos, hear the swishing whispers of my casual Dior dress or even just see some intertwining C’s on a black leather lambskin handbag.  Walking through a mall it was easy to spot the fake Chanel and the imposter Louis. I suppose even if those things were real they would be severely out of place in most South Australian locations or would they?

With very few places to go apart from the gym, work and home I had for a long time given myself permission to become drab and not bother. The fantasy of being fabulous had disappeared and I believed it to be just a concoction of mental images that would fade overtime.

I re-examined the old concept of appropriateness – dressing right for where you are.  The questioning nature of me began to explore and unravel what I thought would be appropriate for work, going out and of course at home. Learning to think outside the square enabled me to really work out what it is that I was doing at each of these destinations and ignore the stereotypes or at least get another take on them.   Really I was just taking my life for granted and didn’t realize really how much control I had over what I looked like. I considered that Carrie would not be who she is if she dressed like everyone else and allowed comfort to compromise on style or even who Julie would be without her fur coats and stunning pumps.

Wearing a tuxedo style jacket with leopard print pants certainly made an impression as I entered the office. Judging by the facial expressions, my impression was a positive one. How far could I bend the perceptions of what was deemed appropriate?

 To be continued….

Armed with a notepad I sat at the General Havelock Hotel. People watching has become more than pastime for me. “Cranberry juice with lime, please”, as the disguise and “skip the vodka” for clarity of mind. Supposedly single white female drinking with high heels and a short skirt, no pick up lines necessary. Before long the first victim had approached. Usual questions, jokes, nothing suss. The conversation needed to be manipulated and indeed we began speaking about female fashion with an average guy.

“So what do you think looks good?” I asked. It was the usual answers that followed – short skirts, no sleeves are cheap; long skirt is too prissy; jeans are hot; too much going on is considered that a woman is too high maintenance. Apparently my all black meant that I was mysterious, tough and analytical. Forever it was said that what is on the outside reflects what is on the inside, now I realize that even with “good” style an unexpected impression can be created. The choice of clothes worn also reflects on the way you feel on a particular day and without consciously asking yourself what would be the desired impression, we run the risk of dressing by default.   

The biggest observation was that peer pressure and maybe the need for attention seems to set younger girls in competition with one another over who can hide the least. Bum cheeks, cellulite and uncontrolled cleavage aren’t attractive no matter whether you are a size 8 or 16. When I asked some males about the concept of wearing very little, I was informed that “in most cases it’s not pretty and “she’s not girlfriend material”. A bit of class is essential. Trashy clothes, give a trashy impression.

There is a right and wrong in the fashion language because coming across in the right way is important regardless of what your intentions are. Style is also about expressing who you are as a person and as an individual and about that message being delivered properly. Consider that we wouldn’t directly ask someone for a kiss as soon as you meet them but rather find a tactical way to communicate that we like them first. Vulgarity should be avoided at all costs.  Fashion is similar and the message that we want to communicate needs to be mixed in with something else. Let’s say we want to be sexy and get attention e.g. you’re going to a nightclub – perhaps the styles of alluring and dramatic could be combined. At work, black and white is proper but doing classic alone could suggest that a person is boring and at worst, cold.

Learning to combine items to create an impression is like learning a new language; it takes time, effort and practice. We go to school to learn to speak properly but conveying the right message is beyond words. They say that 70% of what we say isn’t verbal. I guess that’s why I have Julie now.

In my committed attempt to become Lady Gaga and Victoria Beckham simultaneously and to channel my dramatic energy I wore my skyscraper patent leather stilettos to an open inspection. Carrying my open home boards in one hand, folders in the other and keys to the property ground between my teeth I walked in the rain up the driveway to the client’s property. Wind blowing, skirt flowing, undies showing… it weren’t a pretty sight let me tell you. More like a Lady Gaga freak video clip more than anything else. I guess she wouldn’t be doing opens, right? I guess now you are understanding the problem a little better. Dress for the job you want, Julie says. Taken out of complete context I did, however no matter how much I love Lady Gaga, my undies ain’t gonna win me any listings regardless of what sort of leather jacket I am wearing on top. Thankfully unlike the weather, the real estate market is quite flat and not many saw the little monster walking down the driveway, open boards in tow.

With all the possible new additions to the wardrobe and the excitement of shopping with Julie within the next week meant that I definitely needed some more coat hangers. Undoubtedly, they were in the farthest corner of the department store. I knew that each step was a step on the catwalk of life I took it with every bit of pride but I couldn’t help but feel the excruciating jabbing in my feet. These shoes were unbearable! Like a geisha I balanced two large boxes of coat hangers and did my very best to get from one corner of the store to the checkout… “Pretty shoes”, the lady at the counter said. I rolled my eyes.

Worn, torn, over used and abused – some things we are better off getting rid of then keeping but my warm woolly jumper like a loyal pet dog sat on my bed awaiting my arrival from a busy day at work. The jumper was bright blue and pink, old, torn in places and probably knitted in the 80s. Paired with my boyfriend’s favourite trackies and some uggies would probably make even the worst of stylists cringe. I kicked off my dramatic heels, freeing my toes from the horrid cramping pains between my toes. Neatly I stacked my heels and was ready to launch into my “dramatic” hobo look but something stopped me in my steps. Perhaps it was all of those sexy wooden coat hangers or maybe it was the rows of perfectly aligned stilettos… I wasn’t ready to give up.

I knew this was going to be difficult and changing habits is never easy, especially those involving a woollen jumper. Taking pride in the way I look is not about dressing up for work or going out but rather about being stylish, always. There is a time and place for different looks but possibly the old jumper and borrowed trackies could be replaced with a nice track suit that wouldn’t horrify my neighbours when I pick up the paper from the front lawn. Oh and maybe I should buy some shoes that I can actually walk in.

We are the products of our minds and therefore our imaginations or so they say. Everything we say, do and touch is a reflection of who we are on the inside. Consciously or subconsciously we are judged by what we look like – superficial or not, call it what you like, whether it is you shoes or aura, impressions last a lifetime.

Can we trick people with dressing to be someone we are not or “fake it until we make it” – I doubt it. Any permanent change is from within.

Today we started at the source – the wardrobe. We had established that I was a gold person with angular features, was proportionate and, of course, dramatic. Anything that contradicted Julie’s recommendations had secured itself a career at Goodwill. I have never had an attachment to clothing – regardless of its cost. It was easy to part with things that didn’t suit me – by no means was I hoarder. Plausibly my emotional detachment to clothing and my lack of general care prevented a nagging “Noddy” from sitting on my shoulder and telling me to put my things back after they had been worn. Sometimes left on the floor for a week at a time a single sock would become embedded into the carpet, lost and forever unmatchable to its mate. And since I am feeling quite open, honest and unthreatened like an AA meeting I would like to admit that I have ruined numerous expensive outfits simply because I didn’t hang them. There, my name is Marina Davydova and I struggle to hang things and do up lids. Thanks for understanding.

This is probably the main reason why my style had never really evolved in a consistent way – why I couldn’t look ‘good’ every day. Julie encouraged me to dig deeper and ask myself the question as to why I did not value my clothing. Maybe it was tiredness, lack of time, enjoyment, excitement in putting things back. Doing up lids and putting back clothing – two activities that seem to give me the greatest amount of displeasure. I felt like my grandmother was again teaching me the things that I should have learnt when I was a kid. “Have respect for yourself and your things” – simple yet true.

After Julie left, I tidied the rest of the wardrobe – even my gym gear. Each item neatly folded or hung on a beautiful wooden coat hanger. Colour coordinated and ordered. It was perfect. There was a sense of order within me that I hadn’t felt for a long time and yet this simple external action seemed to give me a sense of internal peace and orderliness. I marvelled at my new creation. Stiletto by stiletto, sock by sock, jacket by jacket, long to short, dark to light.

Items in my wardrobe began to form relationships, things I didn’t believe would work. My imagination came to life again and I now understood the rule of “less is more”. I had more in my wardrobe to wear than I did when we begun, yet I had less… I decluttered my wardrobe and it decluttered my mind which gave it freedom to function.

The treatment of things is a reflection of not only how you treat yourself but also how you treat others. It is easy to buy something new, wear it and feel great. Similar to when one falls in love, gets a new job, goes for that interview – it is easier to fuss over something when its new but new things lose their shine too when they become old. Clothes become old in two ways like most things in life – look old/worn/used AND the mind begins to take it for granted because it is always there and visible.

Admittedly some things are not designed for life and can only last a few washes and cheap quality is an eyesore even to the untrained eye. Quality pieces that are well treated will last years and will maintain their “shine”. Polished shoes and tidy clean maintained clothing all create a positive impression and will demonstrate that you care and are a long-term consistent person.

My wardrobe needed some love, attention and appreciation. One piece at a time I went through the years of fun, enjoyment and memories associated with each thing. Some things I threw out, some I kept. Most important of all I realised that if it’s to stay it’ll be for a while.

Style is not about what you wear but rather who you are. They say it is what on the inside that counts, for me the inside and the outside haven’t really been coordinating for a very long time and now perhaps more than ever the tears have begun to show. The reality of it all was that I did have style I just wasn’t in the right space of mind to express it nor did I know how to channel it. They say that it’s what’s on the inside that counts but isn’t the outside a reflection of who you are on the inside?

“We thought that you were gay” Julie suggested in a kind and non-offensive way. I loved that comment – I heard it a lot, it gave me a sort of satisfying rush, I was proud to be seen as strong and masculine but a nagging part within me wanted to be sexy, feminine and slightly alluring to the opposite sex. So there I sat in my ankle length black skirt, old knit and black scarf. I hated what I wore and that was the naked truth.

This has become beyond looks now and together we have stumbled into something much deeper than style – identity. Who am I? How do I want to be? What do I do with my time? What do I really want to do with my time? It has taken me two weeks of writing and rewriting a simple blog. No answers appeared, just a wardrobe that became emptier. I knew what I didn’t want so I threw it out. I stayed black, like a blank canvas, waiting to be painted using the right paints, brushes and colours.

My style questionnaire suggested that I was dramatic. Lady Gaga and Victoria Beckham were the ambassadors of my style – both were women that I admired. I also needed to be appropriate for what I did and where I was. I liked the thought of wearing colour – outfits that would attract attention, compliments and above all were joyful – like I was.

I searched deeper than my wardrobe drawers and uncovered something within myself. Perhaps style was a sort of epitome of my life – the outside didn’t reveal what was really on the inside. A week after my session with Julie I had a dream – I had an empty home that I wanted to change, paint, beautify. I wanted to do something with this home – something really special. It clicked that day, I can’t explain it. On my way home from an appointment I bought a coat – a recklessly torn beautiful long denim number. The next morning I put on my black patent leather heals, slick dress and the new addition. “Dress for the job you want,” Julie’s words circulated through my mind like a mantra as I left to work.

“Good morning team! Lady Gaga has entered the building”.

Today I wore colour. Rummaging through my wardrobe I tried to find a colour that somehow matched the colours Julie had given me yesterday in my eye opening session. Last night I felt like Harry Potter did when the Hat selected him to be on team Gryffindor. Sitting in front of the mirror with Julie and a beanie on my head we went through the colours one by one. I was astonished that there were many pre-developed relationships that each colour had with me – not so by choice but rather by genetics. How the white would wash me out and how cool colours would make my skin look sick. So yes, I may love pink but pink doesn’t love me. Tough but fair and I was in no position to disagree considering I have been wearing black for the last 14 days straight, and people at work had started to mistake me for a nun.

So after taking every item out of my closet and throwing it on the floor, I found a red skirt – the right red and a red scarf that miraculously ‘worked’ and followed the strict code of Instyle Image. Heading over to my dressing table I befriended the gold eye shadows and warm blush tones. Not overly impressed with myself I left to work. “Nice skirt” was the first words I heard as briskly walked to my desk hoping that no one would notice too much of a difference. Puzzled my boss looked at me and said “what’s happened dear?” (I think that’s the closest I will get ever get to a compliment).

I never understood why peroxide blonde or blue black hair didn’t suit me, yet looked amazing on my friends. Why that top after bought it, wasn’t all that fabulous and why that brown sweater looked so darn good. And yet now, there I had it in my hot little hand the colours that would flatter me and enhance my features? Why didn’t I do this sooner and saved myself time and money?

I have cracked the code today.

I am no Carrie Bradshaw and my wardrobe isn’t lined with designer threads from Alexander McQueen, Gucci and Prada. The closest I came to designer was befriending my friend’s handbag “Louis” who sat next to me in their leather trimmed Jaguar, needless to say we didn’t have much to talk about and quite frankly we had very little in common. The leathery smell, the gold and all that riff raff with monograms and emblems, Louis this and Louis that. Get over yourself, Louis. There are so many like you on Ebay.

Today I opened my lonely threadbare wardrobe; there was no Prada, Louis or Chanel. There was no smell of leather or fine fabric. Furthermore, the thought of shopping brought upon painful recollections of dragging myself in high heels from one store to the next, racking up a credit card debt and squeezing into the wrong sized pair of jeans, never mind the dress that I once couldn’t pull myself out of in a fitting room. I have never been a big one for names or brands, but suddenly Goodwill no longer held the place in my heart that it once did when I was eighteen. And after realising that there is not one decent, let alone, well made item in my closet I decided I must bite the bullet and adopt a new attitude, or at least buy one.

There must be a logical way of shopping for clothing, looking good and not looking like a fashion victim. This is where I needed a professional. Enter Julie Zanes and thankfully just came in the nick of time.