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Why I let my husband choose my clothes

After decades of hiding her model-tall frame in slouchy clothes or designer looks that just didn’t suit her,  Sarah  Ivens found her perfect stylist – close to home 

I’ve never been a clothes horse, despite having a model’s height, standing at 6ft. Rather than swanning about with a confident swagger on life’s catwalk, my lanky loftiness has inspired stooping self-consciousness and a dearth of well-fitting outfits. Add to this an ample bosom, which I found embarrassing as a teen – my early years were spent in men’s rugby shirts and baggy jeans. Psychologically, clothes were a battlefield or a disguise, not a pleasure. Then I met my husband, Russell, and my wardrobe became a source of fun. Well, re-met my husband, I should say.

We originally dated when we were 19 and two clueless students at Kent University. Back then, lurking around the dark pubs of Canterbury, downing pints of snakebite and black while singing along to The Cure, style didn’t come naturally to him either. He was tall and handsome but decided to top off his look with a perm and blond highlights, done by his hairdresser nan during term breaks. Plus, he had a penchant for sportswear with Day-Glo lettering.  How did I fall for this charmer? Well,  he played the guitar very well and we were  a match made in unkempt heaven for three weeks, which seemed to be the average length of a university relationship in 1995.

We reunited, aged 33, in very different circumstances. He was a sun-kissed software architect, fresh from a year on the beaches of Sydney, who’d just landed in America to work for a CV-enhancing company. I was living in Manhattan and the editor-in-chief of OK! magazine, a job that required weekly red-carpet marches, TV appearances and front-row seats at New York Fashion Week.  ‘In New York City, you can never be too thin, stylish or blonde,’ was the only piece  of advice I got from an uptight Hollywood publicist over a dinner at Nobu during my first week in the city. In a panic, I hired a personal shopper from Bergdorf Goodman and had a six-weekly hair appointment with J-Lo’s colourist.

The personal shopper put me in things that suited the season but not my personality – or my body shape – and they’d sit unworn in my closet until given away. I hid under too much fake tan and heavily pencilled eyebrows. My outward appearance might have looked fierce, but didn’t match my insecurities inside. 

What Russ did, as soon as we started dating, was make me feel beautiful. Not only was this gorgeous man in love with me but he regularly told me why. I think the fact we’d known each other as hapless students made it easier to trust his compliments and advice. Russ was genuinely my biggest fan and a discerning critic. Getting a confidence boost from the attention of a good man might sounds cheesy and anti-feminist. It wasn’t. After a depressing divorce at 30 and an unhealthy rebound relationship, I wasn’t looking for a man to rescue me. I was enjoying singledom with my clever girlfriends and exploring the world.

Russ’s adoration and interest in every aspect of me – including my style – came as  a complete and welcome surprise.  Over our courtship, he became a sartorial sounding board and shopping partner. After living alone for a few years it was nice to have someone other than the mirror with whom to consider outfit choices. In the past, boyfriends had tried to buy me clothes that looked ghastly, highlighting the wrong areas because they wanted a certain aesthetic. Russ loved my body and knew I shouldn’t try to disguise my height or my chest. 

If this is all sounding a bit Christian Grey, forgive me. It was just refreshing, in the early stages of our relationship, to be able to relax into a deep trust for someone. There was nothing arm candy about it. Neither of us has flashy, fancy or expensive taste and  I am not an arm candy kind of a girl.  Today, our lives are very different. I am the mother to two young children, William, five, and Matilda, three, and a PhD candidate in the comparative humanities field, focusing on female identity in post-colonial Britain.

These two important pursuits, alongside my work as a freelance writer, keep me too busy to apply fake tan any more, and I certainly don’t dress to impress anyone. Even my husband. Russ and I have just celebrated our eighth wedding anniversary and time and children have quietened the passion with which we once viewed each other. These days, his interest in my appearance is all a part of his desire for me to look after myself. He sees how much time I spend running around after the children or crumpled over my desk. He understands this life requires a uniform of comfy tracksuits, T-shirts, flip-flops,  trainers. But he also sees how applying make-up, blow-drying my hair and putting on something smart can give me a boost. 

So even when I have given up on looking fashionable, Russ hasn’t given up on me. I enjoy vintage shopping, so he’s encouraged me to look up the best stores, go in and dig around. Far from being the stereotype of the bored husband, stifling yawns outside the changing rooms, he picks up things he thinks will suit me and now enjoys looking for vintage pieces for himself.  He’ll also give me time to get ready for a night out by sidetracking the children, and still gives me no-holds-barred feedback on my choices. It can be harsh, and I might huff and puff a bit, but ultimately I know he wants me to look my best and that it is my choice whether to listen to him or not.

This isn’t a one-way situation. My favourite way to relax is to flip through a  Boden or J Crew catalogue in the bath, folding over the corner of pages that have a must-have item for him. At Christmas we buy one nice item for each other and I haven’t made a mistake yet – believe me, he’d tell me if I had. He asks for my thoughts on his outfits too. And for my 40th birthday last year I threw a ‘Bling it on!’ party where we tag-teamed the perfect look – we found vintage gold dresses for me and Matilda and vintage tuxedos for him and William. 

The notion that allowing your partner to take an interest in your image, offer advice or shop for you might not be modern or gender-equal is nonsensical to me. In my PhD work I study women who are damaged or weakened over time by a lover’s lack of interest, violence or unkindness. I have a partner who enjoys playing stylist and dressing the body he, time and children have made  me appreciate, while I focus on roles I am more interested in – and better at. For us, maintaining my wardrobe is just another household chore we’ve decided to share.

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