Suede Boots

Dear suede boots,

Our relationship started way back, when I worshiped Margiela, and only wore monochrome. I thought I knew it all. But then you came along and changed everything.

We met at the biggest outlet mall I had ever seen. One store was piled high with Coach handbags and wallets, all half-off, eventually vacating on buses that brought through an abundance of Asian tourists. There was also Ralph Lauren, or a store brandishing the pony logo, but it resembled less upmarket, more Kmart. In the middle of the Californian desert, I couldn’t decide whether this was the place where fashion went to die, or be liberated.

And there you were. The only size 36 left at the Barney’s outlet. I had already combed through the entire store, twice, wading through the unaffordable and unattractive. I remember asking the sales clerk whether you came in black. “Just the green.” But you were more than green to me. You were the perfect shade of olive, a shade my wardrobe had not seen since I was fifteen. The perfectly imprinted Costume National, proudly on your black leather soles flipped me over the edge. You would have thought that the circumstances would have put me off, but I just had to have you.

We travelled back to New Zealand together, where you’ve spent most of your life in leisure, safely in your dust bag, in the back of my closet. You’ve been to Fashion Week, bits of Australia, half of a night out on the town, but mostly you’ve been on the reserve bench. Because to be honest, who is brave enough to wear suede, especially on their feet when weather, beer, spilled vodka and drunken bitches are all out to get you.

I thought I had learned my lesson, until that fateful morning in Bondi. Suede boots, we met again. It was a Tuchuzy garage sale. I’m sure many girls share my story.

“We’ll just quickly walk past” my flatmate and I justified. But there, in my Nike running leggings and a torn t-shirt, in a front yard on a Bondi backstreet, staring into a mirror leaning against a fence, I was trying to decide whether I needed a pair of suede Rag&Bone boots. Oh yeah, you were also a deep shade of maroon. MAROON. I had to have you. I would have been far too sensible if I didn’t buy another pair of suede boots I’d never wear.

So suede boots. I’m writing to say that I haven’t forgotten you (now plural). You are just not practical. But, something deep inside me is yearning for you. Yearning for you, apparently, in weird colours I would never usually buy. I hope we’ll hangout soon. But until then, I hope your dust bag is just satisfactory.


The pea brain, formally known as Hongi.


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