Behind every Women of Substance there is a wide-eyed girl, pivoting shyly on the heels of her muddy sneakers, cumbersomely picking at Sophie’s World curiosities in her mind while entertaining a rudimentary to-do list that will eventually keep her occupied for, what, the next few decades. I know this, because my mother is perhaps the strongest woman I know, and my absurd certainty on feminism (+ surprising indifference to the general cause*) and wild pragmatism, is to attest to years of nipping at her feet.

It doesn’t even cross me to think that a man could do what I do better. Or worse, for that matter.

When the Sainsbury’s Tu x Graduate Fashion Week samples arrived at the office for consideration there was no question that the collection was the uniform of girl with messy hair, that rolls her eyes at Dorito-coloured fart balloons and sighs at the ‘state of the world’, who eventually grows up to lead – a nation or a household full of mongrels in a foreign land. Whichever she damn wishes.

*I’ll come back to this later. **
** Will I, though? I haven’t yet had a chance to voice this out in a manner that justifies my existence as a female adult, supposedly strong and also representative of some social niche given the boxes I tick (Interracial marriage, immigrant, born of world’s top five patriarchal nations, blogger-cum-not…etc) But if my upbringing taught anything about actions and words, I won’t be wearing no wordy Dior t-shirts anytime soon until my actions prove it so. What I will eventually want to address though, is feminism based on merit over preferential treatment. So, back to *.