Suzanne's Tips and Tales

A day in the life of a Personal Stylist - Bags to Riches

My sister did it in a lay-by of a scenic beauty spot while her infant child slumbered in the back of the car.  I've done it on the train to London.  What, you may ask, is she wittering about?  Handbags of course dahling, handbags!  Or should I say the de-cluttering of one's handbag.   

I've just spent an afternoon shaking my bags upside down and then turning them inside-out while I wiped them with disinfectant. OCD I hear you all mumbling.  A tad but when one considers all the places we take our handbag during its lifetime, then I feel perfectly justified.    

This rather lovely chap alighted the train at Bristol.  We'll call him Ben - he looked like a Ben! He would want to sit at my table.  Up til then I'd had a table and four seats to myself which made the task a lot easier.  Now I had to make space for him without losing focus on the job in hand.

He was bemused - quite understandably.  We got chatting.  He tittered a fraction when he realised I was a Personal Stylist and Image Consultant but just thought it was a charming little ritual that all Personal Shoppers undertake from Cardiff.  

I did threaten to have a go at his ‘Man bag' but he clung onto it for dear life and watched on as I sorted through the contents of mine.

So what did I find in my ‘everyay' bag?  One hairclip, paracetamol, wallet, make-up bag, hat, business cards, mints, scrap paper with my latest ramblings, pens, shopping list, mobile phone, diary, birthday cards for posting,  parking ticket, cheque book, personal details in case of emergency, tissues, a half munched muesli bar, intimate items and much to my cost, a dressmakers pin.  Now what does all that reveal about me?

Add to the fact that the bag has probably sat on a dozen loo floors and we appear to be in charge of a highly toxic weapon that gives a whole new meaning to handbags at dawn. Be afraid gents, very afraid.  Ben was!

Our relationship with our handbag is as mystifying as its contents.  I've never quite fathomed it really, but judging by the sheer look of horror on men's faces, you would think a quick rummage into the bottom of said bag would compare to a bush tucker trial on ‘I'm a Celebrity'.

Have you noticed how a man turns literally to jelly when asked to fetch something from your holdall?  They prefer to pick it up at arms length and then fling it at you for fear it might contain an item with string, wings or some feral animal. 

A woman hoards her life in it, whereas a man has just enough to fill a pocket (we're talking loose change here I hasten to add).   It figures, I guess; a man has no need of a bag - they hate baggage.  They prefer to breeze through life unencumbered, detached and free to hunt.    Women gather, collect, and nurture.  We are sentimental and biologically programmed to lump stuff around.

The female species is obsessed with bags - why do we need one of every size and colour to match each outfit and in a variety of materials from leather to canvas?  It's no wonder we collect bits and bobs in each of them. 

I love and loathe bags in equal measure. I detest the job of paring down my day bag into a little evening clutch.  Bags are a pain, they make your shoulders droop, kill your back and are the most unliberating of accessories.  Oh to be free and walk outdoors without 3 extra stones weighing me down. 

I've attempted to travel light but fail to find enough space about my person for my money, lippie and other essentials.  How do men do it? They must have a back-pocket like Mary Poppins' - dare I say it - bag.

Love them or hate them, we can't be without them.  A great bag worn with style and grace will enhance any outfit.  A bad bag is a wasteful appendage full of stuff and nonsense.   So, do yourself a favour, have a good purge.  Who knows a winning lottery ticket could be lurking!

Posted by Suzanne on 01/02/10