Every time I express a profound distaste for anything sartorially inclined, I always have this thought lurking at the back of my mind. I know that minutes after I tell you I simply cannot bear a particular trend, or style, or piece of whatever, there is a very good chance I’ll change my mind and fall hopelessly in love. Conversely the moment I declare my love, there is an excellent chance I’ll fall out of love with a thud. Such is the fickle nature of fashion - and of me.
Most times the about face comes after I see someone else wearing exactly what I’d previously expressed disdain for, and looking like a genius. Of course, what follows is the inevitable internal struggle where I must decide to follow my initial instincts or re-think those same instincts and just buy the damn shoes. It always comes back to shoes, right?
Sometimes the about face can takes weeks, or months and in extreme cases - years.
Case in point: Birkenstocks.
I may not have told of my disinterest of the German produced, Celine adopted, Instagram favourite and fashion groupie must have on this here little piece of the interwebs. But I’ve certainly told myself a number of times. Generally whenever I see anyone wearing them, which is nearly every minute of the freaking day, as they are - not surprisingly - soooo ubiquitous right now. Yes, I need all those o’s.
And while I still cannot fathom the fur-lined Birks as sent out into the world by Celine and Ms Philo, I’m developing an affection for the traditional and the co-opted that I can only put down to the sensation of repeated exposure.
Some may call it brainwashing.
Others call it streetstyle.
Either way it kind of makes me a hypocrite. But it’s the kind of hypocrisy that we/I can handle, the kind we/I indulgently smile at while shaking our/my heads. You little fashion obsessed darling. So silly.
But hey, I’ll embrace the hypocrisy, I’ll accept the ridiculousness and (you knew this was coming) I’ll buy the shoes.