Designer Dud

I love clothes. I love buying clothes. I love wearing clothes.

(Having to wash all those clothes is another story).

I see something I like, I buy it. I don't care about the designer. I don't care what's on the label. In fact, I can't stand the labels. I hate labels. The way they scratch the back of my neck. Get caught in my hair. Or stick out the top of my collar in the nape equivalent of walking out the loo with toilet roll stuck to my foot. I hate being in line where the person in front of me has that exact problem, said label giving me a tacit "up yours" to the point where I just want to tuck it back into their jacket, but feel awkward and annoyed at the same time, as I don't know the person and if I did fiddle with it, they'd surely give me an actual "up yours."

So, I always cut the labels out of every item of garb I own. There have been cases, however, where I threw something on in the morning, rushing to get out the door and forgot that I hadn't given it the snip, a circumcision of the Vogue sorts. And when that happens, quick fix solutions include taping a Band Aid over the label, wearing my shirt inside out or frantically ripping it out with my teeth while at a red light in traffic, which elicits rather odd looks from the other drivers (as well as one trucker who actually wolf whistled).