Trumping the frump

No one will ever label me chic or stylish.

My clothes and shoes fall apart before I stop wearing them. I get a haircut when my split ends take over. I brush my teeth, but don't bleach them.

Friends and family buy me purses, so that I don't always walk around with a backpack. Similar story for jewelry. I keep the same eyeglass frames until they break or my prescription changes. And, by the time I find out about a swanky brand, that's a clear sign the name is no longer trendy.

My idea of wearing make up is to apply my Burt's Bees lip balm that has a tinge of colour. If I'm going to work, I might even break out the mascara wand.

Yes, the fashion police need an entire hard drive to store records of my crimes against fashion.

While I'm a far cry from a fashionista, I recognize frump when I spot it. For example,this week I discretely snapped a photo of a dude ahead of me in line at Starbucks (see below); his scrunched-up collar and inside-out shirt reminded me that it's possible to go too far the other way.

I appreciate how pulled together and fab most style-conscious individuals look, but I simply cannot emulate them.

So for now, my baby step to trump the frump involved colouring my grey. I don't have an avant-garde cut, but my hair no longer ages me by an extra decade. Tomorrow, I'll even take care to put my outfit on right-side-in, without stray threads, tea stains or missing buttons.

      AWESOME!


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