I was thinking about how often wraps are mollycoddled as precious pieces. This is partly through fear of delicate threads, sometimes a wish to keep it pristine to retain value (outdated now) and maybe anxiety because they’re made in such limited numbers.
This week I was trying to decide what to wear for a Glastonbury-esque wedding party knowing it would be belting down with rain. I reached for a dress (a vintage John Galliano wool and silk burgundy knit strapless number) I thought I had trashed at the “big fat gay wedding” (the groom and groom’s words) a few years ago.
I had unthinkingly worn Smallest on my back along with her rough textured sparkly shoes for a boogie on the dance floor. The delicate wool had been totally roughed up at the hips. Pulled, fluffed, destroyed. It was a bit mortifying. I had saved the dress for a big occasion and loved wearing it that day.
So I assessed it again and realised I had mostly defluffed and fixed it. The spell had been broken on this dress and I could take it down from its pedestal. It felt great to chuck it on with wellies and wear it in a muddy garden. This time it’s been trodden on, delicate embroidered silk panels rain soaked, had goulash dropped down it and it’s gained a few new pulls.
I’ll fix the dress and carry on wearing it because that’s what brings fabric to life. So if you’re treating that wrap with kid gloves, take them off, wear it, drag the tails in mud, dare to brush near velcro and then fix it. These are cloths to make memories in and that’s rather hard to do if it’s folded on a shelf.