From a young age it was clear I was never going to be the girl in the pretty pink dresses with pigtails in my hair. But, I never expected to openly wear boy’s clothes, pretty much everyday.
It all began around the tender age of 13, as all my friends were entering puberty and starting to care about their looks. I went completely opposite. I wouldn’t know what mascara was if it hit me across the face. Instead of rushing to Tammy girl to buy my first thong, I was raiding JJB for their latest Nike tracksuit.
By the age of 16 I had completely shaved my hair on one side, and insisted on wearing men’s Lacoste polo shirts with boyfriend fit G-Star Raw jeans. I’m surprised I was never mistaken for a boy.
This all changed however, when I started to go out. Sneaking out the house at only 17 years old to join my friends on a night out in Chester-le-Street where the shorter your dress was, the more chance you had of getting into a club. So I ditched the boy’s clothes for, rather hideous, dresses.
But, my love for all things manly wasn’t over yet. When I finally became legal to be drinking until silly hours of the morning, I began to develop my own style, one that wasn’t influenced by whether or not bouncers would let me in.
I traded in the tacky dresses for tight fitting skinny jeans and men’s oversized t-shirts. Or buying men’s XL shirts and wearing them as dresses. Just after turning 20 I met my boyfriend who I would be with for a year and a half. Other than his sense of humour and disastrous eyebrows, I was immediately attracted to his clothes. Clothes that only two months later would be in my wardrobe.
Now, just after the break-up I find myself handing back two full bin bags worth of clothes, that I have worn on more than one occasion. Clothes that although were very manly I still managed to dress up with a pair of heels and a pretty necklace.
I’ve now came to the realisation that I will always wear boys clothes. Whether they’re mine or not, this love affair is not going to end soon.