Miss Selfridge

There are times when I find myself in Topshop Oxford Circus itching to browse the shiny polyester wares of the little shop next door. I’m not proud of it, but, as the retailer of my awkward adolescence (didn’t every have one of those tie-​dye heart t-​shirts?), Miss Selfridge will always have an angst-​ridden place in my heart. That it has transformed itself enough since the 90s so that it’s *almost* acceptable for a 20-​something to parade around in a mid-​thigh length, less shiny piece of their collection is simply the cherry on top of the poorly crafted cake.
But then I breathe and step inside, and it’s like… SHIT.
I’m way to old to fight a vicious teenager for a dress.
I’m way too old to gaze at my skimpily clothed self in a dressing room surrounded by willowy pre-​pubescents.
And then I hear that voice in my head (my mother’s) that tells me that I shouldn’t *really* be shopping in a place where they sell pick-​and-​mix next door.
So I walk up Oxford Street to Selfridge’s, conveniently convincing myself that I really, truly am doing some «grown up» shopping, despite the fact that I make a fast beeline away from the alice + olivia and Alexander Wang and head DIRECTLY TOWARDS THE MISS SELFRIDGE SECTION.
No, I don’t get the student discount BECAUSE I’M FUCKING TWENTY SIX and yes, I pay the price of a somewhat limited selection. But I get to buy that dress that’s almost appropriate for a 20-​something to wear, and stroll down Oxford Street boasting a shiny yellow Selfridge’s bag, pretending like I’m a classy bird rather than a tweenage wannabe.
Well, almost.