As a child I was frequently photographed wearing dungarees, matching two-piece outfits or flower-patterned shift dresses. Some might argue, the norm for a 90s kid. Dressing for warmth was not really an issue for me living in Zimbabwe and I often ran around the garden barefoot. As I grew older my parents were relatively liberal in allowing me to wear whatever I pleased, including some very bad fashion choices that could have benefited from a little intervention. They knew what was essential and invested time and money into things like running shoes, a good winter coat, a scarf, and gloves.
My black ASOS high-waisted ripped jeans are my pride and joy at the moment, but that doesn’t stop my dad from offering to buy me new jeans or sew up the carefully constructed rips. So much so that when we encounter someone else wearing ripped jeans, I feel the need to point it out to him: “Look Dad, I told you it’s a fashion trend… it’s not just me!” I find that my dad often critiques my clothing choices using humour with an underlying truth, but has never attempted to change the way I dress. Despite his banter about midi rings simply being too small for my fingers, or crop tops shrinking in the wash, he pretty much accepts that he will never fully understand the realm of youth fashion.
Fashion advice from my dad usually comes from a comical place, whereas my mum offers genuine constructive criticism—I’ve learnt when to reject it and when to accept it. All that matters is that they’ve accepted my style, namely my love for black and my online shopping habits.
