Now, I’m not generally one to get involved in the Do’s and Don’ts of fashion. I make my judgments but I keep ’em limited to myself, my nearest friend, and possibly my nightmares. Other people are a bit more vocal, and hey that’s cool. But why can’t I go out wearing my scrunchie?
* I live in East London, where people are selling scrunchies for £20 a pop, albeit with a few more bells and whistles than my red velvet confection. I don’t want people to think I bought mine for £20. I actually bought it on Broadway Market, in Costcutter, from BASIC GOODS which is my favourite part of any corner shop and they now have these mint-green mini-scrunchies for a quid that I’m slowly convincing myself to buy.
* I was born in the middle of the eighties, which means I saw scrunchies come around, die a death, then lay low in the Costcutters of our land until this booming banner-ad ’90s revival came a-knockin’. I’ll never forget the Sex and the City quote. But wait, wasn’t Sex and the City also in the ’90s? Nobody said retromania was easy.
* I really want it to sit on the top of my head. My hair’s not long enough yet.
* I also own jelly shoes, nail stickers and numerous crop tops, none of which I was allowed as a kid. It’s possible that wearing a scrunchie at 28 is the sartorial equivalent of deciding that adults can eat Coco Pops for tea, and thus inadvisable to indulge too much.
I dunno. It’s kind of nice that my scrunchie is a house pet, protected from the world. And speaking of house pets, in a bit of scrunchie-research mania I discovered CAT SCRUNCHIE. Maybe it’s best not to wear one because I’ll never reach this level of feline stylin’.