It is that time of year again when I find myself shuffling away from women on the tube who are bedecked in fur coats. The sight of fluff on anything makes me dred that a woman is humping around the real thing on her back. If there is any doubt in my mind as to whether a woman is wearing faux or not I cannot bear to be near her.
But as much as I rage against the fur industry and no matter how many vintage shops I boycott for stocking real fur I still cover myself nearly head to toe in the fake stuff all winter. I AM ONE OF THE WOMEN I AVOID! Each day my toes nestle in the warmth of fake suede and fur boots, my head tingles with heat under the finest Russian-style bear skin hat and those around me are swathed in leopard print this and tiger print that. We all know it’s fake, but Sally-Ann opposite on the tube doesn’t. Sally-Ann hates us.
I am finding it harder and harder to justify wearing fake fur when it looks so good that it can be confused with the real thing. When I was a vegetarian I didnt eat fake sausages, so why now do I wear fake fur boots?
Okay, so we need to keep warm and fur real OR fake is the best for keeping us toasty; but my boots look so much like they are inside out rabbits, they even appear to have two fluffy bunny testicles bouncing around on the front of them. Surely me wearing them is giving the okay to the woman on the hight street who IS wearing inside out woodland animals on her feet?
I fear that vanity will be the reason I carry on Fauxing it, the same vanity that drives women to Real it. So can I really complain to a woman in the fox fur coat when I’m parading around in “fur” myself, or can I only tap her on the shoulder with a stick to complain when I’m able to leave my need to be attractive at home and am dressed in an unflattering, but still very warm, hill walking anorak?
Image courtesy of: harpersbazaar.co.uk