The year is 1975. The whole of Germany is occupied by purple yeti-style fur vests, orange platform clogs and bright yellow hot pants. Whole Germany? No: A mother in southern Baden is fiercely resisting clothing that looks as if kindergarten children had taken mind-expanding drugs. One day her five-year-old daughter wants absinthe-colored polyester trousers. The mother buys her salt and pepper tweed dungarees instead. Practical, good material, no silly shot, and a subtle green is also included. The daughter is devastated. The daughter’s name is Verena.
Mom isn’t to blame for everything, no. I owe her a lot, from beautiful front teeth to my timeless first name. But she never understood the thing about the cool clothes. Or rather, she has too much style for that. Always had.
Mode and I didn’t have a good start. Either my clothes were too classic to be trendy – see the pants debacle – or I had the wrong style icons. When I was ten or eleven, Reinhard Mey was my fashion role model. But cowboy boots alone don’t make a blonde sixth-grader look like a wrinkled singer. Five years later I became the proud owner of a pair of black pseudo snakeskin shoes with an incredible number of buckles. I still couldn’t win a flower pot with the other “The Cure” fans. Probably because I wore last year’s ice-cream colored t-shirts instead of a floor-length coat.
Everything could have changed when I was working at a major women’s magazine at the turn of the millennium. But nothing changed. There was no shortage of role models. The ladies from the fashion department trotted to the Wednesday conference with half-off blazer sleeves, their bare arms teasingly stuck through the holes. Sometimes I actually got compliments. But they confused me because they always came at the wrong time. “Wow,” a colleague whispered in the face of a stained suede jacket, “is that vintage?” “Nah,” I murmured, irritated, “that’s just awesome.” invented the flea market. A few years later I became a mother again and found with secret relief that I was out of the fashion game for the time being. The maxi skirt and the maxi-cosi carrier don’t go together. You bust your hem climbing stairs, and handbags hang on your wrist instead of your shoulder when pushing a stroller. It’s not neo-punk, it’s just impractical.
The pram is now old (or rather: vintage), my daughter is old enough for absinthe-green bell-bottoms, and something happened to me shortly after my 40th birthday. Something strange. I just wear what I want and what suits me, which makes my short legs look a bit longer and puts me in a good mood. And I don’t care if I look cool or retro or crossover, like yesterday, like today or just like myself.
I recently asked Mutti, 71, what kind of fashion that actually is. She said there was a word for it: style.
