Monday, 7 February 2011

No Arms












I have a new habit. It is a little odd. I hope you don’t judge. I like to rip the sleeves of shirts and pretend that it was the way nature intended. I have lots of shirts. Lots. And I have got bored of them. I have been getting that numb feeling when I open my wardrobe and think, but I’m bored of ALL of you. This is certainly one way of eradicating that feeling.

It all began with a £2 purple find in the TOPMAN sale. A cropped sleeve T that I kinda like lots and that sculpts my arms into something not resembling skinny rakes. I wanted more of this..

So. I began with an old manky blue cotton shirt from Burton that I’m sure wasn’t mine to begin with. I lobbed off the arms five minutes before Jordan Steven's birthday party and wonder-webbed the edges. Snip, snap, iron, dabb, button, done. It was an experiment but it was also a hit, as was my dancing that night.
I had the taste for it. It was like a drug, I’d found a niche, a signature. I trawled Manchester's Northern Quarter and the vintage shops for more specimens (I know, perhaps not exactly the best way to spruce up an existing wardrobe).

During my trawl I had an argument with a guy in one shop over his inability to haggle and my sheer determination to NOT pay the full asking price for second hand merch. However, I then stumbled across a Wrangler denim shirt in a rival store. The shirt was a treasure: W pocket stitching and some really nice ceramic studs all the way down the middle. I got her down to £20 from £22.50 and then whipped out my student discount for 10% off. Not bad?

Here’s to a new relationship. Me and my arms.

END.