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My 13-year-old daughter and I fight over the same clothes

Liz Stout and her daughter Lula in their matching faux-fur jackets  -
Liz Stout and her daughter Lula in their matching faux-fur jackets -

When I was little, my mum managed my wardrobe like a sartorial dictator. I spent my early years in unstylish trousers and T-shirts, and my teens in rather more experimental outfits. I’m still scarred by the leopard-print jumpsuit she picked out for me to wear to a school friend’s birthday party. (Ironically, it would be bang on trend today – back then, not so much.) 

So, when my daughter Lula was born in 2004, I vowed never to force my fashion tastes on her. Despite longing to dress her in cute appliqué Boden dresses, I’d hand over cash for lurid pink High School Musical tops she picked out herself, and on non-uniform days, I would bite my tongue as she skipped off to school looking like a human jumble sale, hoping her classmates shared her passion for cheap velour and neon. 

On occasion, my taste rubbed off on her – like in the matching blue dresses we both wore on holiday. But on the whole, I gave her free rein. 

However, since turning 13 last year, Lula has cultivated her own sense of style, which has brought with it a new dilemma. For the first time, we like the same outfits and instinctively head to the same rails of the same stores when shopping, and we huddle together over the laptop, compiling similar wish lists on Asos. 

Liz on holiday with seven-year-old Lula in Rhodes. 
Liz Stout on holiday with her then-seven-year-old Lula in Rhodes

Lula’s stepfather thinks it’s hilarious. ‘Like seeing double,’ he jokes. My friends comment with unconcealed envy about how aligned we are, and Lula’s friends tell her how lucky she is to have such a ‘cool’ mum. But it’s not always positive.

Our first confrontation happened a few months ago, when I showed Lula a bikini I wanted. Not dreaming for one second that my quirky teen would harbour the same taste in beachwear, I assumed she was joking when she announced she’d be buying it, too. A verbal scuffle followed, only cut short when we realised it didn’t come in a size 6 (her size, not mine). 

The next clash involved the fluffy Primark jacket I bought. Lula thoroughly approved. Then she borrowed it. When the loan requests started coming in daily, I suggested she buy her own, but this proved worse. One Saturday, we converged at the front door ready for a family day out, both enveloped in cosy cream-coloured fluff.

‘You’re not going to wear that, are you?’ she asked. ‘What if someone sees us?’ I exploded like a toddler at the injustice. I had it first!

As my tantrum subsided, I remembered I was the adult and swapped it for a cashmere Ted Baker coat, telling myself that I probably looked more sophisticated in it. But Lula’s words had cut.

Was I just a sad middle-aged fashion try-hard? 

Looking back, I can rationalise that I’m not, and it’s just that I influence Lula’s choices, as much as she does mine – I make her feel grown-up and she makes me feel young.

We’ve since agreed not to squabble over clothes. We happily cross paths in the kitchen wearing matching Jack Wills joggers and I barely flinched when she came downstairs wearing my new lilac top (without asking). While neither of us minds heading out in the same Adidas Stan Smiths, we now pre-plan outfits if we’re going anywhere together.

As for the fluffy jacket, she’s been wearing it the most, but I’m secretly hoping she’ll move on soon. She’s seen another  coat she likes – it’s full length and leopard print. Mum would have loved it.