L-R; second-hand, Topshop, Temt, second-hand
My wardrobe is giving me the blues. Not the type of blues that have one holed up in one’s room drinking bottles of red wine until four AM. Nor the blues that involve wailing Take That lyrics, eyes brimming with hot tears, into a hairbrush. Nope. I have the sartorial blues, and I assure you, these are much more pleasant than the aforementioned.
The blues are smart, not sexy. They gently insinuate themselves. They don’t have the volatile sucker-punch of a bright tomato red or the fiery seduction of a deep crimson. They lap at the edges of your fashion consciousness until suddenly, the whole thing overflows and you realize that you have spent the past week doing everything in head to toe blue- laid-back café days in chilled faded denim and a crisp duck-egg Oxford with rolled-up sleeves, gallery hopping in breezy steel-blue ombre and suede navy, late night pints and dancing in a deep midnight velvet. Hell, even my fingernails are a perky powdery shade.
Chilled-out elegance by Richard Nicoll, languid fluidity by Mark Fast, clean-cut cool by Arnsdorf
The blues are cool without being contrived. They can hint at the boundless depth of the deepest ultramarine sea or the chill clarity of a cloudless sky.
The insouciant double-deniming cool of Alexa and Pixie just goes to show- nothing beats the blues.
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