She glided down the runway, cruising past a chic border of poised journalists, editors and starlets whose faces were captured by bluffs of bewilderment. She galloped with gamine elegance, cloaked beneath boxy blazers, straight legged trousers and sometimes unforgiving pencil skirts, whilst the soles of her boyish brogues clicked with every step and moved a feminine silhouette, brashly shielded by masculine cuts. She was EVERY single model, in EVERY single a/w 2011 catwalk show and she gradually made the words "masculine tailoring" instigate an unruly gag reflex within my stubborn being, so eruptive and tortuous that my reacting shriek of horror could only be detected by unformed tadpoles.
Needless to say; I hate work-wear. I hate pant-suits, loafers, waistcoats, blazers, pencil skirts and tweed makes me positively shudder, but as a dominating trend successfully conquering collection, after collection is it time for me to just suit the fuck up?
The very notion of female professional attire supposed itself within the early 1900s imitating the polished figure of uniformed naval officers, derived from the intrinsic desire for gender equality in a modernising society. However it was in 1926, when Coco Chanel finally took hold of the hunger and sharpened the attraction, with a calf-length sheath, rivalling the distinct silhouette of male counterparts.
With confidence and prestige, grew fine modifications from Christian Dior and Andre Courreges in the 1940s and 1960s, respectively, leading to a mustering of stylistic greatness at the creatively blessed mains de Yves Saint Laurent in the year of 1966. "le smoking" tuxedo was a modestly sensual menswear adaptation, flirtatiously suffocating under androgynous mystery. The iconic look was enacted by a black, single breasted jacket with satin lapels and co-ordinating trousers, sculpted by an ivory silk waistcoat whose mandarin collar drew the essence of Yves' picturesque, eastern influence.
This highly affecting trend has impressed its stamp upon a succession of decades, governed by a number of potent improvisations to reach its current destination. Today she is a power craving femme fatale in leather or latex with restricted movement breathing s&m desires but sometimes she is demure, fitted with tweed or heavy wool, unpretentiously styled from a clean subtle cut but, failing that, she can be soft and romantic too, loosely flowing in pastel shades of washed suede, sumptuous velvet and delicate crepe silks. Unapologetically, she is anything, everything and everywhere.
Masculine tailored suits open a wardrobe of accessible basic, statement pieces, able to be constantly adapted with seasonal flare, effervescently saturated in professional, educated glamour. Regardless of my festering personal distaste, pantsuits will outlive my stay in this world and flourish with each alteration and remodelled outlook, yet remaining unmistakably iconic.
I might not be able to beat it, but my loveable, cantankerous disposition is still reluctant to join in.