I used to hate 70s fashion. Looking back at pictures of my mum in her 20s, resplendent in wallpaper prints and a not-insignificant auburn afro, made me thank my lucky stars that there was no way in hell that I would ever have to suffer the ignominy of bell-bottoms. The world couldn’t possibly be that stupid twice, I reasoned. A one-time plague of flares would have been enough to teach everyone a lesson, surely?
Call me a sucker, then, that not only have I fallen heavily for the turbo-flare, but I am also willingly committing photos of me in them to The Internets; out there 4 lyf. ‘Tis for good reason, though. Firstly, they make my otherwise-modest 5 ft 3 and an (important) half appear at least three inches taller (side note: this might also be the elephantine wedges I’m wearing underneath), but also, due to sheer bloody physics, the balancing act a flare provides means that if you’re a pear shape like me, the proportions work for you. Trick of the eye, mate. Can’t argue with science. And it looks like I can’t argue with my mum anymore, either. Dammit.