Not spoilt for choice

When I first met my beloved, many moons ago,  he had a shock of blond hair.  Sadly over the years this has receded and it’s fair to say he’s now distinctly follicly challenged. In fact I probably lose more hairs in a day than he has on the top of his head.  To be honest, it’s never bothered me or my beloved. However we both agree that the best look for him is super short. This necessitates regular trips to the hairdressers for a quick once over with the scissors and clippers. No more than 15 minutes and he’s good to go.

I usually take a quick stroll around  the shops while he’s having his hair cut. As the winter collections are in the shops I popped into a couple to check out the trousers, specifically the width of the trouser legs. And, yes, it’s going to be another cheap winter for me as the matchstick leg trend shows no sign of abating. I don’t really ever buy what you might regard as winter wear. If it’s cold a cashmere sweater and anorak suffice up top and I can always wear socks with my trousers instead of my usual bare feet. I have a couple of pairs of what might be regarded as autumnal/spring trousers plus my faithful jeans and, frankly, that’ll have to suffice.

Trouble is I had rather set my heart on a pair of grey trousers just to ring the changes from my black ones. Plus grey looks rather chic IMHO paired with tan. I may have to venture into one of what I call “old ladies shops”.  When we pass these, my beloved, a man noted for his total lack of taste in matters sartorial, will often remark “that’s nice”. I will gasp in horror at an outfit in the window which I wouldn’t be seen dead in and reply: “Who for? Your mother!” You will now perhaps appreciate why my beloved, during our many years of marriage, has never – thankfully – bought me an item of clothing as a gift. Nor have I ever sought his counsel or advice in such matters. In fact, I never ever take him shopping if it’s only to buy something for me.

Distressingly, I have also recently received some catalogues featuring what I unkindly call “old ladies clothes”. Obviously, I’ve reached some sort of watershed where from now on it’s all downhill: rubber soled comfortable shoes, garish colours and prints, boxy jackets and  – the dreaded – 3/4 length trousers. Faced with the paucity of these choices, is it any wonder I spend my days in lycra and nightwear?

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