Leaving a New York Flapper Girl

Some trends have tremendous vogue. One moment flared jeans are all the rage (you can tell quite how wonky my fashion radar is but that doesn’t mean that I don’t have an excellent point in the making) and the next thing you know they couldn’t be more passé. A mere glance at them repulses you and you can’t imagine for the life of you how anyone could have deemed them remotely fashionable.

The flapper style however, has always retained something of a chic mystery to it. Or perhaps it hasn’t whatsoever but it doesn’t look half as bad to the modern eye as the flock of seagulls haircuts and incomprehensively massive shoulder pads of the eighties. Even though the major trend fell out of favour, there have always been suitably winsome lassies happy to wave the flag for the flappers. You’d have noticed them before now if you’d cared to look.

But I don’t need to tell you all this do I? You’ve already found yourself a flapper girl of your very own. All the way from New York in fact (slightly less impressive if you happen to live anywhere near Manhattan but to my English sensibilities New York feels faintly exotic). Things started out so well, you pictured yourself as someone racy and interesting. You hung out in speakeasies and quaint hipster joints.

Then, somehow, it all got a little wearing. You felt hopeless inauthentic as if she was trying to recapture something long past that neither of you experienced in the first place. It became a chore to be with her rather than anything remotely liberating or even passably diverting. You came to the realisation that you had to leave a New York flapper girl. Fling a Tommy gun to her side and thrust a cream pie in her face and be done with it why don’t you?

Song choices courtesy of: Greg Edmondson, Randy Newman, Murray Gold and The Lumineers


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