Beribboned

It is the later years of high school. I am perhaps sixteen. In an op shop I have found a men’s shirt, in a brightly white, slightly shimmering fabric, its collar worn. In my mother’s sewing box are some of my favourite things in the whole world: rich silk ribbons; narrow spools in violet, vermillion, rose, and royal blue. As a child I would sometimes unfurl them just to look and feel their exquisite colour. Now, I have them out with a different intent. Ribbon, needle, thread, scissors, an idea. Inexpertly, I tack them in zig-zagging lines across the shirt at different angles. They cross the chest, some going over the shoulder and back, while two slither down part of the sleeve. I remove the worn collar and sew a piece of ribbon around the exposed edge.

To wear the shirt, I set it off with dark jeans and pale grey leather boots that have tapered toes and a Cuban heel.

I have made this top because I like how it looks. And because no-one makes clothes like this for men.