I have childhood memories of 50s fashion
when skirts billowed above sugared net
when nylons clung to gravity-fighting suspenders
and boned corsets squeezed waists and ribs,
when hair was rollered, backcombed, sprayed solid
and tethered at night by hairnet and curlers.
I grew into 60s psychedelia,
tottering on metal stilettoes
that crushed my toes into improbable points
while my Carnaby Street miniskirt froze my legs
although it did turn heads, attracted attention,
but not always of the right kind.
These days I’m surrounded by loose swing dresses,
ripped jeans, leggings, free-flying hair,
plimsolls with skirts
and not a corset in sight.
Where’s the grit? Where’s the pain?
Where’s the suffering for fashion?
