I have two pink dresses. They’re both special in their own way, but one of them has a name: Alice.
When I saw her hanging in the boutique, by it self-away from the other garments- mounted like a piece of art on a white wall as its backdrop, she looked like an Alice.
It’s bold paisley patterns arabesque all over the fabric. While the shades of pink bounced off like beams of sunlight. It had a subtle touch of ruffles at the hem, at the end of its sleeves and outlined the scoop collar.
“It’s brilliant, isn’t it?” asked the boutique sales associate. She was English.
“It is,” I said. I was sixteen and in Brittan.
I looked at it for a long time. I thought about what I’d wear with it? The shoes I’d pair it with? How I would do my hair? The occasions I’d wear it to…
By the time my friends who were roaming around the store were thrown, I decided to try her on. Alice, fit my budding figure perfectly. The inner lining - a nice surprise-hugged close and created a flattering silhouette. The hem hit mid thigh and ruffles on the three quarter sleeves reached just at the elbow. I looked in the mirror and saw myself then and 10 years from now. It was one of those dresses.
It reminded me of those Austin powers movies but less cheesy. More stylish. I could see my self-wearing it out the store and in and about Piccadilly square. As well as see it worn to some cocktail party in a few years. It was a dress that wouldn’t age inappropriately, but rather gain a retro quality.
I <3-ed it instantly.
The price I did not <3.
It was overwhelmingly expensive, for me at the time. And with sad eyes I put it back on display for someone else to enjoy.
I left the boutique heavy hearted, all the while thinking about Alice…