A shirt big enough to sleep in, hey even Biba and I both could set up bed inside this one. I love it and I don’t say that lightly, the pursuit for the perfect white shirt is a long term struggle of mine. I know, I know, such a hard life I have. But really, most of them, both lower and high end don’t drape but sit too starchy and bulky. Let’s just say that in terms of French personalities, I resemble the Michelin Man when my aim is Jane Birkin. And so, every autumn the search begins again for a soft but structured white shirt. Over the years I’ve grown fairly cynical, a glance at any option online or in a shop window has me shaking my head, silently resolving I could fashion something out of a pillow case that would fit better instead. Also, I’d like one that doesn’t take an entire afternoon to iron. What on earth is that about? One wash later and so many turn into what I can describe as a very old, crumpled bed sheet. I don’t need to tell you that’s not chic. I also don’t need to tell you I’m terrible at ironing and have no desire to improve. I remember being asked to iron a suit for one of my ex boyfriends ; a can of starch spray and a predictable burn later, I presented him with my pitiful efforts. The only upside was he never asked again. If I can’t muster the energy to iron my own clothes, I’m sure as hell not doing a man’s ironing. Hell no. I am simply not that kind of woman. I have things to do and places to go, everyone can iron their own clothes or if I had it my way, not at all, ever. Life is already too short and laundry already takes too long. Ironing. Who needs it? Not I. A different ex-boyfriend of mine, and yes I’ve had as many relationships as I’ve had white shirts, anyway…he suggested I hire someone to do my ironing. The idea baffled me, of all the incredibly useful things I could hire people to help me with and my first employee would be paid to…iron? I’d much prefer a videographer or weekly manicurist or professional smoothie maker, thanks. And, if I could afford to have someone swing by and invoice me for the sake of ironing, I’d be jetting over to Italy to pick up my custom-made tailored shirts that don’t wrinkle. So, really the suggestion, quite like him, was useless. And so are most white shirts. They might look delicate and tailored on a size 0 model under the right studio lights; I’ve been deceived many a time. Only to then find myself standing in a slump in front of my low-lit bedroom mirror wondering why and how. As for the one I’m wearing here? Time will tell, I tore it from the box and up it went buttoned on my body ; I adore how it’s slouchy and so excessively oversized. I’m little hesitant to wash it in fear it will die; I’ve sadly lost many white shirts to a spin cycle. Yet, I am incapable of wearing white for more than an hour without staining it somewhere and thus another difficulty arises in the simple task of wearing a damn white shirt. Like I said; I know, I know, such a hard life I have.