#SaySomethingNiceFriday, June 24 2016
God, she shouldn’t have.
I quickly give her the once over* (*aka that thing all women do, whereby they cross-examine every inch of your body with their eyes in zero point one second flat before returning your gaze) and utter an audible snort of contempt. Bright pink Chanel is questionable at the best of times; but when you pair with a barely-there skirt and those lips, you may as well introduce yourself using one of those automatically generated stripper names. I wonder what mine is? Am sure there’s an app for that. There’s an app for everything nowadays…
I’m about to pull out my iPhone to start this critical piece of research, when, with no warning whatsoever, she cracks a brilliantly witty quip in my direction. The words that come laughing out of those surreal lips (must be implants, injections never look that good) are coated in a thick French accent. This can’t be real. How can she possibly be French?
In case you don’t know, the tricolore passport is only afforded to girls who fully obey the two ubiquitous rules of frenchness:
1. You will never speak to others first and maintain that inaccessible Parisian aura at all times;
2. You will always abide by the adage ‘less is more’. Sexiness, in particular, can only ever be implied by your attitude (for guidance see: rule 1).
Thankfully, my kind do not hold me 100% accountable to the above. I have the excuse of 1/4 of English blood flowing through me to justify my bubbly character and penchant for revealing leggy-wear. Truthfully, it is in fact because the two statements can barely be laughed off as parodies that I decided to leave the homeland all those years ago. I simply didn’t like being surrounded by so many judgy frogs at all times. And yet here I was, expecting to reap the benefits of my new postcode, while continuing to apply the internalised codes of my upbringing.
I chuckle back at her joke and offer a suitably funny response in return…
Fast forward two years, and the pair of us are postively inseparable. Our friends don’t bother inviting one without the other. She has become my surrogate sister, my office strategist, my unofficial caption writer, my travel partner-in-crime, my party wingman.
The best friend anyone could hope for.
And to think this may not have been, had I indulged in that one second of judgemental contempt when I first glanced in her direction. All because we don’t share the same sartorial taste. We’re all guilty of judging each other but let me tell you, I’ve learned my lesson. And if being in the public eye, albeit on Instagram only, has tought me one thing, its that judging a book by its cover, and spreading gratuitous insults via comments, tweets et al is unnecessary, immature, and quite frankly embarrassing. So pledge as I have to #SaySomethingNice, because the world will be a better place for it. Together, we can help fashion and social media become a place that encourages women to spread compliments instead of judgement.
And who knows, you might be in for a treat, as those on the receiving end may surprise you as they did me.
Oh, and in case you are wondering: the lips are real (just goes to show how much I know about surgery); my stripper name is Princess Leatherthong (ever the leather junkie); Anissa’s is Sparkle Titties, which could not suit her better given she has just launched her own line of sparkly things, which obviously includes provocative body parts.
I could not be more proud of her and her rubies boobies.
If you've been judged - or have done some judging in your day, please do share in the comments. We want to get this conversation going. In partnership with Amazon Fashion. Watch the #SaySomethingNice campaign here.