Stella McCartney
Meatpacking District – New York
The dress floated on a rail. Others of the same colour lined up alongside. It was white lace. Looked perfect. Faultless.
After a little dithering, I decided to try it on. I was pretty fearless for an eleven (almost twelve) year old.
The changing room had ornaments decorating the walls: small photos, letters, birds and black and white photos. Light brown wallpaper with trees and leaves provided the backdrop.
The dress was soft and looked extremely delicate. I carefully slipped it on. It felt expensive; I could now tell why rich woman spend a fortune on clothes. Because we are a world obsessed with labels and price. Anything ridiculously expensive is instantly made cool. And I, like all other sheep, love it!
The zip was a little stiff, but with a few hard tugs it edged its way up.
The dress was truly beautiful, a work of art. The lace had not a stain. It felt light and perfect.
Outside of my little dream world, reality knocked on the door. It said in my head “The price tag…the price” in a kind of annoying voice.
And as always it was right: $1,500.
Time to take it off.
The assistant wandered around outside waiting for someone to help. As I popped my head round the door she was giving a lady a pair of trousers.
“Excuse me.” My voice came out slightly nervous but also amused.
“Yes, how may I help?” Her voice was soft, trained to make you want to buy things.
I revealed myself; and the dress. “Well, it’s stuck.”
She began to try and prise open the zip. I smiled inwardly, back in my imaginary world of fantasy. ‘If they can’t get me out I’ll have to keep it’.
“It’s not budging.” Her voice was more apologetic then I expected. “It has happened a lot with these dresses this season. Just wait a moment.”
She came back with a man who began to copy her actions. The zip would still not move. I imagined it laughing with dragon horns, but to me it was more an angel.
He then began to try and rip it.
“It’s really not moving,” the lady said taking over the ripping. “If we cut it then she can just replace the zipper.”
I realised they were referring to Stella McCartney herself. How cool is that?! Well for me it’s very cool. Anyway.
“We are going to have to cut it.”
The scissors appeared.
They began to cut through the fabric.
My heart pounded.
And then with the last slice the dress was off.
And I could not walk away with it.
I thanked them and walked back into the changing rooms. And removed the beautiful, delicate dress. Which was in the end, pretty strong. Stella or Miss McCartney would have to do plastic surgery for it to regain its former self.
I handed the dress over to the assistant. I imagined an escape scheme. I’d grab the dress and….err… leg it.
She was saying how sorry she was. And yes she should have been for cutting me out of it. So yes sorry you should be indeed. But I said the polite words against my will:
“Oh it’s ok I’m sorry too.” Forced. I smiled and turned.
Ah, my father. “So what happened in the end?”
“They had to cut me out of it.” He laughed.
“Come on then let’s go.” He stood up from the sofa.
Boys’ ways of shopping: walk into shop, find a seat, sit and wait, smile when they can leave and hurry out of the shop before it’s too late.
The doorman smiled and wished us a nice day.
I stepped out of the shop and left the dress…the dress…
Just to be clear I didn’t really have all those feelings at the time. I was standing quite still and being very polite. My heart wasn’t really beating very fast or anything. And before you report me I wasn’t planning on stealing it. Well…
Facebook
Status update: Just got cut out of a Stella McCartney lace dress.
Looking through the comments a lot of people thought I would have to pay for it. This thought never even occurred to me - and I didn’t by the way.
It was just the fact that I had to be cut out of a Stella McCartney lace dress.
(And I know I am too young to be on Facebook, but my views on that subject I will discuss another time.)
Here is the dress, with the rip!
No comments:
Post a Comment