I’ve always judged my Dad for what he looked like when I was born. I came into this world in 1987: the year of THAT hurricane and many, many years after the seventies.
Unfortunately, my old man hadn’t clocked that last bit and was still rocking the flares, the massive collars and the classic seventies mustard-themed colour pallet. His only doff to the eighties was his George Michael mullet.
It wasn’t a strong look.
Now I’m not super stylish, or particularly on trend or whatever, but maybe I should be? What will my kid think of my it’s-not-a-hipster beard? Do I need to go all One Direction, and hit up Topman?
A year ago I didn’t care about this kind of thing. But now that a) I am writing a blog on all of this, and b) Instagram makes everyone and their kids look enviably great, it’s unnervingly high on my thought list…
UPDATE: I wrote this before Feline was born but couldn’t find the photo of me and Dad. So the feature image is actually me, attempting to rock my wisdom above…judge for yourself.