A PASSION FOR FASHION: The Dress Code Syndrome

I’m still trying to come to terms with the dress code obsession. It seems that everywhere you go, you have to look like what you do, and if you don’t adhere, be prepared for the commentary trail. During a literary evening of a creative writers workshop I attended, one of the sponsorship crew members came up to me. As we exchanged hugs and air kisses, he gesticulated with his arms and lifted an eye brow in bemusement, saying “I didn’t know you were into this sort of thing. I never really saw you as that kind of person.” This wasn’t the first time I had heard comments like this. There tends to be a “Wow! You’re creative? No one would have guessed!” every now and again. Initially, I put it down to my talkative nature. After all, empty vessels sure make the most noise. Perhaps it was because I didn’t exude the persona of a typical creative character: introspective, introverted, intense, and ever so slightly insane. And at other times, pretentiously enigmatic with a hint of morbidity attached. After years of taking offence at what I thought was an assault on my intellectual and artistic capabilities, I finally realised the problem. I did not dress the part. I had tried growing an afro for a year, but in a moment of temporary psychosis, I was possessed by a perm kit and now I walk the streets with sleek hair. As a result, I am unable to convert my non-existent afro into dreadlocks, which is the unisex and uniform style of choice for my arty colleagues. I have also committed the ultimate sacrilege of wearing a weave! Being creative also means that there are certain kinds of conversations which happen to be as fashionably trendy as the anticipated unveiling of Marc Jacobs’ or Tom Ford’s spring collection. These utterances should include words like: Barthes, Cheik Anta Diop, Said, Lacan, Cesaire, Fanon... and woe betide you that you if you do not own a copy of Marx’s communist manifesto or anything Plato. So, for someone like myself to discuss Jim Iyke’s new music video or who else Tuface has impregnated, is a definite artistic faux par. Knowledge of the hottest clubs in town will lead to ex-communication. Regarding clothing and the creative look, it seems the general idea is that our work requires intense concentration; that we are too engrossed in making art that we have little to no time to indulge in the vanities of this world. Like visiting the hairdressers or just looking for a decent outfit to wear. So, we move around with the Ankara shirt or trousers we picked up during our pilgrimage to Ghana and carry ugly knitted Rastafarian coloured fling bags we purchased at the beach the previous year. We would much rather wear our coke bottle bifocal glasses than change them to slimmer lens verifocals. After all, our artistic prowess makes up for all our physical shortcomings. The last time I remember looking shabby was during my days as an art student, when it seemed illegal to wear new clothes. We rocked our converse sneakers till we needed to use safety pins to hold them together. I wore the same pair of jeans for weeks on end till they frayed all over. Sadly, the dress code syndrome doesn’t afflict only the creative lot; it transcends almost every social group. A designer recently considered my skills in helping her with some work. “I think you would be the best person to help me with this but I am not really sure if you are into fashion,” she said. I held up a plastic grin, hoping it wouldn’t crack from her statement. At the end of the day, you may never catch me prancing around in six inch Manolo Blahnik shoes, neither will you find me in a counterfeit nor real Hermes Birkin bag. So could I really blame her? I am flat footed and was once told that I needed orthopaedic shoes, so my inability to develop a foot fetish like most other women meant that prospective gig had gone down the toilet. These days, I wake up and wear what I feel like or what I deem fits the occasion. I will never understand why I need to look scruffy to prove that I write well or endanger my metatarsals to promote your clothing line. So if you see me next time, don’t ask silly questions or make absurd utterances. Thank you very much.