By Ruona Agbroko
August 7, 2009 04:58PMT
I don’t care whether it will take countless bloody Marys, half a large Heineken or twenty shots of that scrumptious Belvedere juice (yes, vodka) to cultivate the power of imagination, folks. Make like the NIKE payoff and ‘just do it!’ Just imagine, people... if Fashion were a living, breathing thing, what would be its first words? What clothes size would it adorn? The infamous, Victoria Beckham-initiated, catwalk-perpetuated and thoroughly misunderstood “size zero” of course!
It also goes without saying that if fashion could have the benefit of a gender, it would DEFINITELY be female; which other sex inspires the full complement of Fashion’s many gifts to mankind? Think lipstick, push-up bras, plastic surgery, lash-defining mascara, and that’s not taking into account the myriad of trends, clothing and accessories inspired by the female body.
Speaking of bodies, what would Fashion’s BMI be? This is the only question I might not be able to answer, since a long-standing hatred for mathematics has ensured I don’t even know mine. And if you have no idea what the letters BMI stand for, please fold this copy of élan neatly at this point and switch to organic clothing, take up horticulture... or something... fashion does not become you, I must say!
Now, where was I? Come to think of it, what if Fashion had the form of a human, and the power of choice, where on this CONTINENT would it make its abode? (Nigeria, many would argue!).
Again, if Fashion were a religion, would it exult at the lengths we go to remain staunch adherents? Or would Fashion be consoled by the fact that our excesses are somewhat controlled by earning power and willpower?
Tummy tucks for all sexes, the boom in the girdle sale industry, the wearing of braces to literally keep ever-guzzling mouths shut, and of course, the evil tenets that even many a middle-aged socialite have been known to indulge in: bulimia and anorexia.
But more importantly, imagine... what if Fashion could indeed move, and talk... just what would it say? If Fashion itself were allowed an opinion, do you honestly think she would applaud the recycling of trends decade in, decade out? If you’re sufficiently old, or savvy, or both, you’d know the ghosts of the 60s ‘Twiggy’ silhouette have intermittently resurrected on catwalks from Lakshmi to Lagos, with the only difference being the steeper price tags and mass production levels!
Thing is, you can’t even really blame the designers, (yeah... those humans who, as Fashion’s self-confessed confidantes, wake up every day to proclaim a voice from the sky told them the rest of us must now begin to wear jute strips as dinner dress). Why blame them for making a kill off people’s increasing mania to look like each other?
Perhaps Fashion would reach for its Tom Ford Whitney sunglasses to shield its eyes from the avalanche of tawdry neon accessories teenagers garnish themselves with each day.
Or would it whip the shades off to appreciate the wholesome sight of Nigerians scurrying like mice at any designer sale, anywhere in the world, Primark included? Me? Primark? How dare you! I have never been in there. That would be the fastest way to have my family cut me off my inheritance, right before wearing loose clothes during pregnancy and reading Playboy.
Anyway, I do know for a fact that fashion would lose her non-fat, low-carb, high-protein, extremely leafy lunch at the sight of black eyebrow/lip-liner no matter it’s make; thunder thighs crammed into cigarette jeans; not-at-all-little women in ‘little black dresses’; butt cracks in low-rise pants as the okadas they are draped on negotiate the streets of Lagos... In fact, I am willing to bet my only pair of Rock and Republic jeans that if Fashion could talk, she would shake her head of 100% human hair in disbelief and yell in French (THE most fashionable language, mon ami): “There is no such thing as a ‘Fashion Victim’, you earthly ignoramuses! I, Fashion, am the victim! What y’all do in my name... Tsk! Tsk!”
It also goes without saying that if fashion could have the benefit of a gender, it would DEFINITELY be female; which other sex inspires the full complement of Fashion’s many gifts to mankind? Think lipstick, push-up bras, plastic surgery, lash-defining mascara, and that’s not taking into account the myriad of trends, clothing and accessories inspired by the female body.
Speaking of bodies, what would Fashion’s BMI be? This is the only question I might not be able to answer, since a long-standing hatred for mathematics has ensured I don’t even know mine. And if you have no idea what the letters BMI stand for, please fold this copy of élan neatly at this point and switch to organic clothing, take up horticulture... or something... fashion does not become you, I must say!
Now, where was I? Come to think of it, what if Fashion had the form of a human, and the power of choice, where on this CONTINENT would it make its abode? (Nigeria, many would argue!).
Again, if Fashion were a religion, would it exult at the lengths we go to remain staunch adherents? Or would Fashion be consoled by the fact that our excesses are somewhat controlled by earning power and willpower?
Tummy tucks for all sexes, the boom in the girdle sale industry, the wearing of braces to literally keep ever-guzzling mouths shut, and of course, the evil tenets that even many a middle-aged socialite have been known to indulge in: bulimia and anorexia.
But more importantly, imagine... what if Fashion could indeed move, and talk... just what would it say? If Fashion itself were allowed an opinion, do you honestly think she would applaud the recycling of trends decade in, decade out? If you’re sufficiently old, or savvy, or both, you’d know the ghosts of the 60s ‘Twiggy’ silhouette have intermittently resurrected on catwalks from Lakshmi to Lagos, with the only difference being the steeper price tags and mass production levels!
Thing is, you can’t even really blame the designers, (yeah... those humans who, as Fashion’s self-confessed confidantes, wake up every day to proclaim a voice from the sky told them the rest of us must now begin to wear jute strips as dinner dress). Why blame them for making a kill off people’s increasing mania to look like each other?
Perhaps Fashion would reach for its Tom Ford Whitney sunglasses to shield its eyes from the avalanche of tawdry neon accessories teenagers garnish themselves with each day.
Or would it whip the shades off to appreciate the wholesome sight of Nigerians scurrying like mice at any designer sale, anywhere in the world, Primark included? Me? Primark? How dare you! I have never been in there. That would be the fastest way to have my family cut me off my inheritance, right before wearing loose clothes during pregnancy and reading Playboy.
Anyway, I do know for a fact that fashion would lose her non-fat, low-carb, high-protein, extremely leafy lunch at the sight of black eyebrow/lip-liner no matter it’s make; thunder thighs crammed into cigarette jeans; not-at-all-little women in ‘little black dresses’; butt cracks in low-rise pants as the okadas they are draped on negotiate the streets of Lagos... In fact, I am willing to bet my only pair of Rock and Republic jeans that if Fashion could talk, she would shake her head of 100% human hair in disbelief and yell in French (THE most fashionable language, mon ami): “There is no such thing as a ‘Fashion Victim’, you earthly ignoramuses! I, Fashion, am the victim! What y’all do in my name... Tsk! Tsk!”
*Illustration by Adams Gbolahan
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