In the first week
after I moved from New York to Britain, I was invited to a birthday
party. The invitation didn’t specify any sartorial requirements, but it
was in the private room of a trendy restaurant. I’m always looking for
an excuse to wear something fabulous bought on a whim, and this
celebration seemed a great justification for the black ruffled Brock Collection dress I had splurged on. Confident in my choice of the ankle-length dress and a pair of leopard-print mules, I strutted into Salon in Brixton – and met a sea of jeans and blazers, nary a high heel in sight.
OK, so some quick Google groundwork might have informed me that Brixton
is not Belgravia. London’s postcodes all have their own dress code; just
another of the unwritten social rules I’ve learned. But here’s the
thing: even if I had known that cocktail dresses
and mules don’t fly in south London, I probably would have worn the
same thing. Simply put, I’d much rather be over-dressed than
under-dressed. Why settle for less when the compliments keep coming? And
on that night in particular, I didn’t even need to do a changeroo when
the party headed to a private members’ club with strict rules on attire.
Being over-dressed is a wardrobe directive I have always followed. As I
inhale the intoxicating scent of fancy heavy-card stock and admire the
chic calligraphy on the invitations that land on my doormat, my mind
races weeks ahead to the evening of the fête, visions of rhinestones and
statement earrings
dancing in my head. “This gold sequined halterneck jumpsuit will
definitely come in handy for any upcoming party that I may not have even
been invited to yet… and I can always make it work for a wedding, too,”
is the kind of sentence I utter to myself far too often. To my mind,
there’s nothing worse than misinterpreting the invitation and showing up
in sneakers – do this, and you will inevitably be seated next to
someone in a feathered gown.
CLICK TO VIEW DRESSED: Vogue Fashion
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