Shopping with money is always fun, but it’s those particular pieces that really spark the fire of enjoyment that shopping brings. Sometimes it’s a pair of shoes in a red labelled SALE, or a set of pots and pans you can’t wait to go Jamie Oliver on, sometimes it’s a sexy piece you’re daring to buy that burns in a discreet pink bag as if everyone can see the naughty streak you hardly let out. But today it was a dress…Dresses are funny things, summer dresses, maxi, short, slut, girly, floaty, tight, day, night the list goes on, but there’s a type of dress I refer to as the ‘Killer.’ We’ve all seen that dress; The one that catches your eye from across the store, the one that has you cutting through people traffic to reach the doors.
I saw it like a siren pushed between drab and dull colours it was screaming for attention. I pushed through the sizes, I selected a wish (a size 10) It was heavy on the hanger, the folds of fabric falling like a rich waterfall over my arm. The floor length skirt had movement, the tight gathered bodice suggested this was a mistake, but the colour was undeniable. The price was irrelevant already; I wasn’t leaving this shop without this dress.
Never one for tight and compact changing rooms I took a breath and knew it was unlikely this would fit, I should take a 12 but the 10 was so tempting. I locked myself in the little cupboard, quickly shed the casual and dropped the gown over my head. Soft, heavy, sexy fabric licking your skin, hugging your curves, softening every line, smoothing every flaw, this was a killer dress. It killed self consciousness, it killed faded jeans, it killed every harsh word and foul look ever sent your way. The woman wrapped up is totally irrelevant to the equation, it’s not the woman that makes this dress what it is, I made no special contribution to the beauty of this piece, you know a killer when it’s a dress that makes a woman, a dress that doesn’t care what you look like, because it looks good enough to make up any difference.
The dress felt good, it felt even better knowing the label inside read 10, I hadn’t worn a 10 in over a year, and there was room to breathe, room to slip it up and off easily back onto a hanger and onto a till. A £130 dress from 2 seasons ago that had been left abandoned and unloved was in my hands for £35. A red dress is ageless, it doesn’t fade or die out, this dress is a killer, and it’s now mine.