A petty, unimportant, & slightly bitchy newsletter about headbands and bows
The following is based on no real research and is entirely informed by my hypocrisy and mild prejudice.
This week’s sermon runs the risk of making me look like a bit of a bitch and mildly unfeminist, but if I’m pretending that I’m never a bit of a bitch, I’m not being honest with you, and if being a feminist means we can never be a bit of a bitch, then feminism has failed us all.
I would also like the freedom to write something silly, trivial, and entirely unimportant this Sunday because not every week can be about rape, unpaid labour, and heartbreak. We women are more than just our pain. So, allow me to explain, in very great detail, why I loathe the latest fashion accessory that is plaguing women: headbands and bows.
To explain this fully, I have to take you back to Tuesday evening when I was walking in my local park. It was the golden hour, which happens to be my favourite time of day. When it’s my turn to leave this earth, I want to be buried in the golden hour. I’d like my coffin to be lowered into the ground as the dying sun of the day bathes everyone I love in gold. As soon as I become a fully responsible adult and write my will, I will be adding that as one of my absolute requirements. (In case anything happens before I get the chance to write the will, show this to the lawyers). But I digress. The point is, I was enjoying a magical moment. The glimpse between two worlds when for a few seconds I really believe everything is possible.
As I strolled along the path, two women were headed towards me. As we closed the gap between us, the woman closest to me scanned me up and down quickly. You know that searing, furiously fast look that women give each other where they catalogue every detail about you, and even though you’ve tried to hide the awkward parts of you, they already know what your biggest insecurity is and where to find your Achilles heel. It’s a unique talent that women have, and I’ve often thought that the FBI and MI5 would do well to use these women to train their spies.
As she carried out her assessment, something close to disgust and a quick flash of pity at my bedraggled state crossed her face. If you were to ask a man about the look on her face, he would say she didn’t have one. That her features never changed. But only other women know the slight flutter of the iris, the almost imperceptible recoil of the neck, and the delicate shudder that all translates to, ‘I would never.’ It’s a language only other women speak and it can make or break a woman’s day.
In fairness to this woman, I did look slightly unhinged. I was wearing tiny shorts, but not the kind that are tight and make your ass look fantastic, rather the baggy kind that move in the wind and given the right angle, you can definitely see your knickers. The old, grey, washed-out pair you have happened to put on that day because although the elastic is fading and there’s small holes in them, they’re just so damn comfortable and you needed ease that day. This was accompanied with a t-shirt, a long woolly cardigan that has been through the washing machine one too many times, some old flip flops that are more scuffed than anything else and an extremely unattractive brown, boucle crossbody bag.