How many times do you find yourself standing in front of a full closet with absolutely nothing to wear? For me it’s a regular occurrence – and never is this dilemma more keenly felt than when I’m packing for a trip.
Earlier this year I spent eight days in Scandinavia, exploring Norway, Sweden and Denmark with a Eurail pass, a group of very stylish journos and very fashionable photographer, Liz Sunshine.
The night before my flight, I sat on my floor surrounded by mountains of clothes that I once liked, but I could not find a single stitch I wanted to bring with me. Everything looked decidedly daggy or would no longer button up. I found myself longing for a primary school camp packing list: three long-sleeve shirts, one sun hat, waterproof pants.
Feeling rudderless, I cobbled together what I could and headed to Oslo.
Over eight days we trained through Norway, Sweden and Denmark. Liz was snapping chic Scandis for an upcoming exhibition and asking them to describe their personal style. Listening in I began to realise, not only did I feel unfashionable, I actually dreaded getting dressed.
In a bid to make fashion feel fun again, I decided that when I got home I’d try to get out of my sartorial rut by embracing Scandinavian trends. I would commit to a month of dressing Danish-ly.
Day 1: I decided to come out swinging by wearing a piece I’d bought on my trip: a blue-chequered 1959 nurse’s uniform I bought at a Henrik Vibskov sample sale on a boat in Kroyers Plads. The designer was there. “This is very old and made in Denmark. It’s going to last forever,” he told me.
I admit, the reason I bought it was so whenever anyone asked I could say, “This is a 1959 nurse’s uniform bought in Copenhagen.” Initial reactions from friends and family were that it looks a bit like a Victorian nightshirt. My dad said, “[It] looks like a dress you already have, doesn’t it?” (It doesn’t. I don’t own any other 1959 nursing outfits.)
Day 2 to Day 14: It rained for two weeks straight – significantly slowing the experiment. Scandis know how to dress for the weather; I do not. Danishly, I adopted a uniform of practical and warm clothing: jeans, an oversized T-shirt, a thick jumper and a pair of practical and high-quality Merry People gumboots. To stay true to the experiment and push myself out of my comfort zone I incorporated some of the accessories I’d seen so often in Scandanavia: silk scarves (tied in my hair or to a handbag), ribbons and claw clips. Finding a way to incorporate these fun pops of personality made me feel like I was putting an outfit together rather than just getting dressed.
Day 15: I’m celebrating Mother’s Day and for the occasion I’m busting out a gingham number I bought at the Ganni outlet in Copenhagen. I’m slightly nervous because, even at 27, I crave my mum’s approval of my outfits and I know that if she doesn’t like the dress it will likely get banished to wardrobe purgatory.
I wear the dress with a blue jumper, thrifted denim jacket and matching blue platform Twoobs (the platforms are essential to me because I am vertically challenged). She liked the dress but is very concerned my feet will be cold in the sandals.
Day 19: The weekend rolls around again and I’m off to see Challengers. In tribute to the method dressing of Zendaya and her stylist Law Roach, I have the perfect outfit. The riskiest of my Danish purchases: a T-shirt embroidered with a plush scene of a pair playing tennis in front of a crowd. The 7pm Sunday night screening at my nearly empty local cinema has never seen such a look.
Day 20: Realising the tee shouldn’t be relegated to a pitch-black cinema, I wear it to the office the next day. I cop compliments from the team. Our very fashionable intern asks me if I made the shirt myself – knowing his temperament I choose to interpret this as a compliment (he thinks I’m incredibly crafty) rather than an insult (he thinks this is the embroidery work of a chaotic amateur).
Day 23: I spend about 35 minutes trying to figure out how to make a vest work. I try it solo; I try it over a dress; I try it over a T-shirt; I try it over another jumper. I want to look like Swedish influencer Matilda Djerf but I look like an accountant. I try taking the vest off, putting it back in the drawer and wearing a jumper instead. Much better.
Day 24: After yesterday’s vest defeat, I bring the nurse dress out again and wear it into the office. I can confirm that the thrill of telling people that it’s a 65-year-old nurse outfit has not worn off.
Day 28: I pick up a pair of red Bared Surfbird ballet flats over the weekend and pair them with jeans, an oversized blue button-up and a red bow to match the shoes. I feel smugly stylish all day. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and think, “She could be from Stockholm”. Despite multiple warnings not to walk home in brand new shoes, I am Icarus. I walk the whole way home, get blisters, and am forced to revert to the markedly less Scandi Twoobs for the next 36 hours.
Experiment concluded. What have I learned? I think the key to the “Scandi cool girl” aesthetic is confidence. The experiment gave me licence to look outside my normal go-tos, have a bit of fun with my outfits, and push outside my comfort zone. I’ve committed to going through the depths of the wardrobe and donating the things that never get worn or never fit and hopefully I’m moving towards a future where everything in my wardrobe makes me feel good. And, hopefully, the idea of packing for an eight-day trip won’t send me into a cold sweat.
The author travelled to Norway, Sweden and Denmark courtesy of Eurail.
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