First there were the
Minnie Mouse leggings. I was four (one, two, three, four sticky fingers counted
and held up proudly to show my age). They were my first experience of fashion,
and my first experience of love. A shouty shade of pink, they clashed with the
orange curtains that parted around my chubby face. I paired them with an acid
green t-shirt, accessorized with a half moon grin. I would like to think that
my taste has developed since then (I got a haircut and ditched the Disney), but
some things will never change.
My name is Libby and I
am a colour addict. My wardrobe looks like a Skittle shower. It is colour
co-ordinated like a rainbow with only two or three black items acting as a full
stop at the very end of the rail. I hardly ever wear them. Dressing in colour
is an important part of who I am and bright shades are like the anti-shadow
that follows me wherever I go.
I cannot imagine my life
without colour, and I cannot imagine my life without Sally. Sally is my mum’s
name and the name of the nanny who helped look after me ever since I was two.
Both women have been huge influences in my life and have painted it many
different shades.
When I think of my childhood
and my mum I think of a soft pink jumper she wore when I was little, a jumper
that felt like falling asleep it was so gentle to the touch. I think of the
powder green stalks of her favourite flower (tulips), her forget-me not blue
Aga and her marshmallow pink fridge. All of these things and all of these
colours sum up how I felt about her as a little girl: she was my safety.
Nanny Sally is the most
colourful person I know. Red was and still is her signature, but if it is not
red it is purple, or fuchsia pink, all accessorised with vibrant handmade
jewellery and a personality as warm as the colours she wears. Nanny Sally’s
love of colour extends into her home, where cereal is eaten out of rainbow
stripe bowls and cupboards are painted turquoise and apple green. I didn’t know
this was allowed.
My memories are punctuated
by colour, like bright map tacs pinned into the collage of my life. A
toothpaste green gingham dress marks my early school years. I saw in the
millennium with dark green beads and a velvet skirt that felt soft and
comforting to the touch. Bright tie-dye and a suede coat the colour of squashed
blackcurrants signalled the transition into my early teens.
As I grew up my
relationship with my mum changed: she wasn’t just the pink parent who fed me
Calpol and put my school uniform on the radiator each morning, she was a poster
for the kind of woman I wanted to grow into. And she was red. I would watch her
put on her red lipstick or hug her through her thick red coat when she came
back from work, and I would think to myself, “I won’t be a grown up until I can
wear red.”
As I got older I also
became more conscious of the clothes I wore. Now the first thing I think about
when I wake up is what I’m going to wear. It is important to me, not because I want
to look like a walking magazine (or think that I ever could) but because the
clothes I wear have a huge effect on how I feel. Colour is a big part of this.
Last year I spent two
weeks in two colours: one week dressed head to toe in pink and another dressed
head to toe in red. I was interested in how colours affect my mood and the way
people treat me, but most of all it was the one thing that fashion should be: fun.
People often tell me
that I must be confident to wear such bright colours. Most mornings when I wake
up I don’t feel sunshine yellow or confident cobalt. In fact I often want
nothing more than to hide behind a mask of grey and black. But that is exactly
why I wear colour. If I’m feeling blue I’ll put on blue tights instead.
I have always worn
colourful clothes, but my wardrobe is definitely the brightest it has ever
been. Earlier this year I became unwell. I spent six months in a glandular
fever cloud. Most days I felt as though I had been on a treadmill for weeks and
my body had turned to jelly. But I wasn’t just drained of energy; I felt like a
deflated balloon with all the personality squeezed out of me. I spent several
months in my pyjamas and developed a relationship with my duvet that was
nothing short of possessive. When I eventually managed to escape the clinging
arms of my bed I wanted to wear all the shadows of my mood. But instead I
dressed like a sunbeam. Like a sunflower draws energy from the sun, I drew
energy from the bright colours that I forced myself to wear. I still do.
The clothes you wear are
the first things that people see of you. I want mine to smile hello.
Colour is my coffee in
the morning and the person I want to be. But it is also my story. And although
it may not be earth-shattering or twinkling with the sparks of fireworks, I
think my story is more colourful than a little black dress. Isn’t yours?
