In search of…THE PERFECT BIKER JACKET
What I want:
I want a biker jacket that falls no lower than my hipbone. The leather must be reasonably soft and nicely aged. The fit must be snug and tight to the shoulder, but not so tight that I can’t do it up. The zips and fastenings must be a dull silver or brass and not shiny new. In short, I want one I can throw over an LBD without looking like I’m auditioning for Grease or waiting for the Fonz to pick me up.
What I don’t want:
I don’t want the Topshop one, or the Belstaff one. Zara’s was passable but not lovable. I don’t want one with a giant Harley Davidson motif on the back, or rodeo fringing on the arms. Certainly not those batwing, wide-shouldered monstrosities as modelled by Samantha Fox in her heyday. And heaven forbid I don’t want to wear it on an an actual motorbike, so if it looks good on the M1, forget it.
What I found:
The Balenciaga Biker Jacket was as near to perfect as you could get, but at £1250 I’d have some explaining to do back at the ranch. And yes I did the maths: if I wear it every day for the next year it’s the equivalent of lunch at Pret, but unfortunately my husband doesn’t do CPW (cost-per-wear) just GFD (grounds-for-divorce).
The ONE: Balenciaga
Then last month I found it on eBay in the US. Beautiful she was, just beeeoootiful. Patina perfectly aged. Small, yes it was small. I mean, I really should have inferred from the words “Punk Baby” in the title that it was going to be small; but the measurements seemed workable so I Bought It Now I paid I told the seller to hurry hurry HURRY for Paypal God’s sake get it to me quick.
When my punk baby arrived I ripped open the packet and out came this shrunken, miniature version of my ideal motorcycle jacket, like something you’d put on a keyring. I tried it on- hell, I even split a seam trying to get into it, the dimensions being inversely proportional to how much I wanted it to fit me. And had I been seven years old, it would have slipped on like couture.
What I ended up with:
Temporary numbness in my hands from trying to get my arms into two leather loo-paper tubes. Still, I’ve kept it in case my unborn child has to go to a fancy dress party as someone from Grease.
Yay. It's Punk BABY!!!
The search continues…
