There’s two dominant sides of the female view on fashion in Britain.

A: The sleeveless-short-shorts-rainbow-print-tie-dye-bleached-hair-skinny-legged-pretty-young-things.

And then there’s us.

B: The slightly-tubby-nun-in-the-middle-of-topshop-who’s-not-a-prude-but-defends-self-as-modest section of the population.

We parade ourselves as 60’s music lovers and Internet scrollers. Our wardrobes have at least three fandom-related tshirts, we wear flannel pyjamas or jumpsuits to bed, and own each and every cardigan we can get our hands on. Our Job Description is “Works well with people” all the while voicing aloud how much we hate everyone, even though secretly we don’t really care.

We spend our evenings considering dip-dying our hair and thinking how cool it would be to have a thigh gap or to pencil in our eyebrows, but we’re terrified that it would make us feel ‘one of the masses’. Our Spotify music sessions are permanently on ‘private’ as we listen to dubstep and house music while doing homework.

Our wardrobe is a cross between trying-too-hard-to-be-different and not-different-enough. We wear long sleeves and block colour close necks and momma’s jeans. We wear Doc Marten boots for their comfort, not for their title in the fashion world. We blush and stutter and spit when we talk too fast, and we scrape our feet across the floor. We’re ‘the quietly funny one’ in our group of friends, and we wish to go to far off places and be famous and rich but are held back by our constant comparison to fashion section A.

As we swing our shopping bags and walk out of Waitrose, our eyes wander to the girl in front of us. Rainbow tank top and short shorts and long legs and thigh gap and hair that we know is damaged beyond repair, but we feel a sudden rush of hate. In our defense, we say it’s because she looks ‘slutty’, or because her clothes are entirely too expensive. Instead, it’s a clichéd comparison. We compare our product-free hair and scuffed shoes and faded jeans and our bloody image to uphold to their careless demeanor, all the while knowing full well our ‘image’ doesn’t exist and it’s a thing we invented in our heads to act as a goal to strive towards.

The conclusion? B are always jealous of A.

On most days we’re comfortable, and that’s something we’re content with. But we read books about dancing in the rain and festivals and threesomes and we have a small ache in our chest, an ache that yearns to be these people. To be the girl who sits on the curb at 3am in the morning with mascara running down her cheeks. To be the girl sharing a tent with six of her mates in a whirl of brightly printed blankets and neon vodka. To be the girl sliding down the pole and knowing full well that all eyes are on her.

6 things you should get up off your ass and do;

1. Dip dye your fucking hair woman. Who cares about root damage. Go Effie Trinket on your own ass and totter down the street like a stick of candyfloss on LSD.
2. Go to Topshop and spend fifty quid on a pair of jeans with their legs cut off. Too shy to reveal your pale, bumpy legs to the world? Purchase a pair of wacky tights that cause seizures when looked upon by the naked eye.

3. Go to a concert. Glastonbury. Glee Live. Opera in the park. Whatever. Learn how to work with a crowd and appreciate the benefits and feel of blending in and becoming something huge.
4. Tops have progressed from worn-with-a-corset, to worn-with-a-vest, and now worn-with-a-bra. It’s remarkable. Take off your vest and show your lingerie to the world via a flimsy t-shirt. No, I am not encouraging our female population to strip naked and slut drop in the grocery store. (Though I’m not trying to discourage it. You feel the urge to flash the dead chickens in the meat aisle, then you go for it.)

5. Take your godamn spotify off ‘private’ and take the headphones out of your ipod. Dance down the street to a tune everyone can hear, and sit at the back of the bus and grace everyone in what you think is good music. You’ll have the single mums and grannies sending you dirty looks in seconds. Interpret these as a carefully choreographed eye dance and see who keeps the beat best.
6. Step out of thrift stores and into the world of Primark. The place is a giant girls bedroom come Christmas time. If you’ve left without a bra or a pair of false eyelashes stuck to your back without your knowing then you haven’t properly shopped and you should go back inside right now young lady.

Accept the fact that fashion is one huge stereotype. Swirls and raggy hair doesn’t have to mean that the wearer is an addict, just as much as our frumpy clothes don’t mean that we’re boring and ugly.

Now go- and be golden.