I Left London for Texas (And Other Things That Are Insane)

A picture I drew of my bedroom in London, 2005. From the author's collection.

I spent two years in London, studying the art of Fashion Journalism and suffering through the most debilitating migraines of my life. I lived near Finsbury Park tube station, in a walk-up flat in an Edwardian town house. My room was small, painted red, and the walls had settled away from the floor, leaving a two-inch gap that my father tried to plug with weather stripping once when he was visiting. The wind would howl through the small space and I would huddle, crying from the pain, under ten blankets in my twin-sized bed.

When I wasn’t hiding in my red cave, I was stomping the pavements of Oxford Street – adeptly maneuvering my way through the crowds, head down and shoulders hunched in to protect myself. I was always protecting myself in London. The entire two years felt like a constant assault on me. On what I knew to be true and what I wanted to be true. On everything.

Sometimes I say that I didn’t learn anything while I was in London. Sometimes the bitterness comes out and I roll my eyes and smirk, trash-talking the hallowed halls and the food in the student union. But it’s a lie – I learned some things.

I learned the correct amount of obsequience required when seating an upper-echelon Fashion Editor in the front row at London Fashion Week. I learned where to buy the cheapest pints within walking distance of class and how to down the most of them in the shortest amount of time. I learned that my (US) size 10 hips were considered too large for almost everyone and that my straight-legged jeans meant I was from the boonies. I learned that my distaste for Pete Doherty meant that I would never be taken seriously in conversation. I learned that if I exclaimed in rapturous admiration at a passing woman’s shiny, metallic vintage cowboy boots that I would be met with dead-eyed stares and the platitude, “Only rednecks wear cowboy boots.” I learned that hailing from Texas meant that I was either A) Republican, B) a redneck or C) completely irrelevant.

Me in the dreaded Topshop Baxter jeans, 2005. From the author's collection.

This was before the age of the fashion blog. This was before fashion editors were splashed across street style websites, their statuesque forms draped in couture. I knew who the editors were because I was a small person from suburban Texas who devoured Vogue and Elle and dreamed. Back then, it was about Suzy Menkes – I almost fainted when I seated her at several shows during LFW. Would we see Menkes on Jak & Jil? The Sartorialist? That is another story altogether.

Because this was before fashion blogging invaded the halls, the industry still felt like a small bubble floating along the top of city life. But fashion week was insanity for those of us in uni – we all had internships, and we ran from venue to venue with our hands clutched around garment bags or off-license sacks full of Red Bull and cigarettes. I spent half an hour scrubbing glitter and paint off the faces of tearful teenage male models at Peter Jensen. They were terrified the paint would dye their skin and they would show up for their next booking with blue cheeks.

I was invisible at LFW. I wore a vintage dress and black tights and Converse, because anyone who thinks they can be a fashion intern, during fashion week, in heels is absolutely delusional. I was not the right size, the right look, the right anything – and so the only time anyone looked at me was to bark orders. I stood by the wall and watched, content to see the flowing pageant both on and off the runway. But I walked home at night and cried, because I hadn’t had a meaningful conversation in days.

In university we sat through lectures trying to teach us how to string sentences together that would impart on the reader the incredible knowledge that eco-fashion is hot or kitten heels are back. I sat on the risers, pen gripped in shaking hands, and tried not to let the voice that was screaming in my head distract me. Was this what I had signed up for? Was this what I wanted when I was twelve, lying on my belly on my bedroom carpet, sticky fingers tapping the dog-eared pages of Vogue?

I left London for Texas. And my friends, both in London and Texas, looked at me as if I had lost all sense of reason. I tried to explain – vague answers about how my mental state couldn’t take the competitiveness, how I wanted to be more creative, how I needed to see home. But no one understood – in their eyes, I had failed. I was running home, with my tail between my legs, and they would never hear of me again. They would go on to their jobs in shiny offices in buildings named after famous men and I would go to Texas.

In Texas, my size 10 hips are still not the right size. But for some reason I am more okay with that here than I was in London. In Texas, I wear cowboy boots everywhere and that is okay for obvious reasons. In Texas, the bigger the hair, the closer to God. In Texas, I can wear jeans and a t-shirt without feeling like I failed. In Texas, I can be a feminist. It was very hard to be a feminist in London, in fashion school. It is very hard to be a feminist when you are fasting and crying because your middle section hangs over the top of your skinny jeans.

When I left London, my parents flew in from Houston to help me pack up my flat. I stuffed as much as I could into six suitcases and we donated the rest to a charity shop on my High Street. My father called a cab and we loaded the boxes onto the seats. The driver watched, bemused, as a headless mannequin was levered in through the open window. He drove us the two minutes to the shop and then let himself out of the car, helping my father carry in the boxes. The little old ladies behind the counter grinned as we brought in load after load. They exclaimed over the books and fabric and clothing – they commiserated with me as I ran a finger lovingly over the items I couldn’t take with me. Outside, my father was paying the cabbie and telling him we would walk back from there. He thanked him for helping us unload and peeled a tenner from his wallet to give as a thank-you and a tip. The cab driver looked at my father and shook his head, pressing the money back into his hand.

“Give it to the old ladies,” he said, grinning. “Donate it.”

I left London for Texas with a bad taste in my mouth. I left ambition and glory for humid summer nights and cowboy boots. I left migraines (I never had them again) for honky-tonks. And, for several years, my views of London were clouded with bitterness. But then, like phoenixes, the little moments rose up. Walking by St. Pauls at night. The reflection of the OXO sign on the Thames. Running down Embankment, hand-in-hand with friends, tripping on mushrooms. The sight of a baby, sleeping in a pram in the entryway of our building because his young mother was at her wits end with newborn twins. The way his little fists clenched and unclenched. The awe and excitement as I watched my first fashion show. The way it felt to show Suzy Menkes to her seat. The cab driver and his grin.

Katy Jones is the Editor of The Blind Hem. She is a fashion-school dropout with a Creative Writing BA from the University of Houston. She blogs at Dirty Hems, sells vintage clothing at Moonshine Hill and is usually spilling her guts on twitter. She lives in Texas.