WHY I HATE FASHION

I like clothes. No, that’s a severe understatement. I love clothes. And shoes. And rings, and belts and socks. You get the drift. I however, hate fashion. I detest it. Every time someone talks about how a collection is directional or trendsetting, I want to shove my stilettos into my ears. Everytime someone says something is amazing, superb, fantastic, amazing (yes, I know I listed it twice) or fabulous, I want to shove my fingers into their eye sockets and slam their eyeballs shut in between the pages of a dictionary.

I hate fashion.

My colleagues recently recollected their experience attending a show at fashion week last year. Instead of watching the clothes or the models, they spent the entire show trying to take a photo of a pale, scrawny guy in his early twenties wearing what could only be described as a dickie. You know, the ones that Howard Wolowitz wears:

It makes me roll my eyes at the batshit crazy things people “in fashion” wear. Leather in Singapore’s heat and humidity, holey-holey drapey drapey, nonsense crap that the kids on Lookbook.nu seem to covet, sneakers with platforms, it pisses me off.

I like to think some things belong on the runway. I like to think some things can only be appreciated on lithe bodies who’ve deprived themselves from bread and cheeses and milk and living on cigarettes and free champagne they manage to grab at the end of parties. Anything will look good on these people. For the rest of us, we should just watch and scowl at the bite marks our stilettos gave us during the course of fashion week.

There’s the other side of the spectrum where they cut booty shorts so high up, it feels like I’m giving the girl in front of me on the escalator a pap smear. Or those side-boob tank tops. FAKE GLASSES. I don't even.... And don’t even get me started on tie-dyed crap. Tie dye. Seriously?!

And then there are the people in fashion – or the people who think they are. Those quick to point out that your shoes are last season, people who think they have authority or some kind of power that has been bestowed upon them to have them tell people what to wear. There are some people who do, who know their stuff and I respect them for it, but the majority? Bitch, please.

I don’t hate fashion in its entirety. I love couture shows and drooling over clothes I’ll never swear, shows I’ll never see, and I love scouring through racks and pouring over glossy magazines full of anorexic part-human, part-makeup, part-Photoshop beings. I love watching clothes I’ve only seen a few months ago on the runways of Prada copied almost blatantly and stocked on the racks of Zara and other high street stores. I love putting on a dress that has been tailored just for me.

But for most of it, fashion just annoys me. How many men can pull off the drapey holey crap that’s on runways? Don’t even get me started on men wearing women’s clothes. It doesn’t help that there are mesh-tank top wearing gay men who are strutting their stuff in heels and would constantly point out “fat” women on TV and magazines. And by “fat”, I mean a whopping UK Size 10. –insert eye roll-

I’ve always said the food I enjoy the most are the kind that a mother can make in her kitchen. Yes, molecular gastronomy is mind boggling, but give me a traditional Osaka-style okonomiyaki any day over a meal made of bubbles and froth. And just like food, I think clothes should be that your mother – or some other stylish older woman would have worn in the past, or would approve of.

Dressing up should be fun. It should be about putting together an outfit based on how you feel, or what you want to dress up as for the day. It should excite you, and make you happy. It should boost your confidence. It shouldn't be about what's on-trend, or what's in season.

Tracie Egan, the editor at Jezebel once wrote that there is too much emphasis on ‘what’, and not enough on ‘why’ in the fashion industry. It’s not about what I like – but why I like it. And that is why I still wear 6-inch heels to work even though at the end of the day my feet hurt like I’ve just run a marathon in a desert barefoot. It’s not because it’s Louboutins. It’s because I love how fucking powerful I feel in them. And it’s also cos’ of how they make my ass look bangin’.