When I was a teenager in the 1980s, I had a lot of favourite items of clothing: scrunchy turquoise cargo trousers with an elasticated waistband, grey suede pixie boots, a skimpy beach T-shirt with the word “Hawaii” written on it (a place I have never visited), a Cyndi Lauper-inspired ra-ra skirt with ruffles in pink, white and, yes, turquoise. But there were so many objects of desire that I was not permitted to acquire: crinkle-effect stilettos, a Frankie Say Relax T-shirt, jelly shoes, drainpipe jeans, a matador hat like the ones Mel & Kim wore … Also out of my reach for most of my teens was the thing I wanted most: the effect of a whole outfit. A look. Until this one night.
I was about to turn 17 and this was my outfit for the school dance. It was all sourced from my grandma’s wardrobe, except for the sunglasses, which were my mum’s. The outfit consisted of pieces that no one else would – or indeed should – put together: a pink sparkly minidress with a silver-sequined hem and collar, silver sparkly elbow-length gloves, square-toed gold vintage shoes and a fake fur leopard-print coat which was not to be removed, even indoors. The coat was an essential part of the outfit, (a) for modesty reasons, as the dress was a bit see-through and (b) because I did not have maximum body confidence at this or, it would transpire, any other time. My hair was styled with my mum’s heated rollers and assiduously coated with L’Oréal Studio Line hairspray.
This was in early summer 1990, the era of gatecrasher balls (riotous parties for posh teenagers) and the heyday of Laura Ashley (purveyor of black velvet off-the-shoulder ballgowns). I wanted to wear something that signalled that I was definitely not part of either of these phenomena, that I was my own person. So I aimed for a look that channelled Debbie Harry, Madonna, Wendy James from Transvision Vamp, Jackie Kennedy and Marilyn Monroe all at the same time, a combination which, to me, represented the height of iconographic originality. D’oh.
The dress was once full-length. My grandma was an excellent seamstress and made it herself in the 1960s. I’m not sure how I persuaded her to chop it up into a minidress for me. The gloves and shoes she had from dances and parties in the 60s and 70s, when she and my grandad were amateur ballroom dancing champions.
My mum and my grandma were sceptical about this outfit and wished that I would borrow a Laura Ashley dress. But I think they were won over in the end by the overall look. Crucially, I achieved my ultimate goal of not being dressed anything like anyone else at the dance. It did take some negotiation to get my grandma to throw in the coveted “Bet Lynch coat” as a finishing touch. I didn’t want to wreck it by sweating on it, so when the DJ played Transvision Vamp’s Baby I Don’t Care, I vogued with elegant caution. This outfit is still and will always be the greatest outfit I have ever worn.
