PETITE PROBLEMS
EPHEMERA MAGAZINE / MAY 2019
As a woman who is both short and curvy, shopping is no petite matter — there’s always a gap in the back of my pants or a sweater with sleeves that droop past my fingertips. There is no one specific scene in my life that illustrates this; it’s an endless collection of memories of failed shopping experiences. A search for clothing usually goes something like this: I’m at a mall or a boutique on the hunt for something particular, say, for an event, to convey a mood, or to replace something old and tattered. Once I think I’ve found the piece I'm looking for, I pick it up in my regular size and a few extra sizes, if they’re available. I bring the items to the poorly-lit dressing room, and begin struggling through the pile.
Trying on my usual size of jeans, I find that this pair doesn't go up past my thighs. Slipping into a flowy XS button-up blouse, the breast buttons burst open to reveal a NSFW gap exposing my bra. The fit of this size Small wool sweater dress is limping past my knees and is hiding my backside in an unflattering way. When I’m done, I change back into my outfit and drop off the rejected pile at the exit. “How’d it go?” a chipper salesperson asks, and I respond with a monotone “No dice,” with no desire to go into further detail. They lose a sale, and I leave empty-handed, having wasted my time.
It’s been this way for as long as I can remember. I’m 5’0” and consider myself curvy and petite. Petite shoppers are classified by their height, at 5’4” and under, and not their weight. But I’ve got above-average T&A, wide hips, and a smaller waist, which is unusual for the classic petite shopper, who is often perceived as skinny and childlike in the fashion industry. Growing up in the ‘90s and early aughts, thin was “in,” with models like Gemma Ward and Lily Cole commanding the runways. Recently, it seems my body type is trending on Instagram: women like Nicki Minaj, Lady Gaga, Kim Kardashian and her sisters, Salma Hayek, and Yeezy model Amina Blue are all 5’2” or under and exploding with curves. In one sense, it’s empowering to see these babes slaying it with their lewks, as there’s an increase in diverse sizes being represented in social media and ad campaigns, which makes me feel seen.
But despite this new norm celebrating fuller silhouettes, I rarely see clothing for my body type reflected in retail spaces. Sizing has always varied from store to store for nearly every body shape, but when you’re 5’4” and under — and you might be, because the average North American woman is between 5’2” and 5’4” — the shortcomings are strikingly apparent. Brands like ASOS and Topshop cater to trend-based looks, relying on cheap materials for production, while mall basics like J. Crew, Banana Republic, and Loft sometimes miss the mark with their business-casual selections and their abundance of polyester duds. Some brands like Everlane, Madewell, and Anthropologie are getting it right by offering petite inseams on select pairs of pants, and shopping Japanese brands like MUJI provides great relief and good quality, if you’re looking for an oversized look. Vintage can be a good option too, provided there’s time to scour through the racks and find the exact thing you need.
But many of these stores are online only or do not offer an in-person petites section to shop. You’d think that the internet would’ve improved things for petite shoppers, because now we can get anything we want, whenever we want, but this poses a problem for me, a serial scroller who adds to cart and abandons it frequently. Measurements in-hand or not, my proportions make it hard to shop online without trying things on. Most items have to be returned, which can sometimes result in hundreds of dollars of unreturned shipping and duty fees when shopping outside of Canada.
I’m not the only one feeling left out. In a study by Bustle on petite shopping, approximately 47% of petite shoppers claimed to shop mostly in-store before shopping online. And shopping the petites section can have its limits, with most selections focusing on professional attire rather than a cultivated style. The petite section feels like an afterthought at these big-box chains and department stores, thanks in part to a practice called pattern grading. Refinery29 explains it perfectly: “An item of clothing, designed for the sample size, is ‘graded’ up or down to accommodate different sizes.” It’s so ingrained in the design and manufacturing of clothing that accounting for non-standard sizing is challenging and expensive, which explains why brands tend to not diversify their sizes. In the real world, petite shoppers come in many sizes, and have different personal styles and lifestyles, just like any other person. This isn’t always reflected in our shopping experience, until more recently: Stature, a curated shop for petites based in New York City, only chooses and sells sizes XS and S in high-end “regular size” brands like Rachel Comey and Ace & Jig. They have a refreshing take on petite fashion and fearlessly experiment with personal style in a cool, fun way. The downside? If you don’t live in New York City, you’ll have to shop online, which typically comes with those added costs and ill-fitting risks.
Growing up in a suburb outside Toronto and feeling like I never really fit in, I turned to fashion at age 12 as a form of self-expression. I had always loved fashion, thanks to my mom, who is a tailor and dressmaker. She ran her own sewing business out of our basement while working full-time and raising two kids. I grew up surrounded by tin boxes cluttered with all sorts of notions, hundreds of colours of thread, and rolls of cotton, tulle, and satin. I was calmed by the mechanical murmur of her sewing machine running, the gentle clicking of the spool of thread that slotted into the machine, and the sound of pins dropping onto the floor. It was the sound of creation.
I bonded with my mom through fashion, from watching Jeanne Beker on Fashion TV since I was a small child, to shopping with her at the mall as an awkward, tomboyish preteen. Fashion and style have always been something I’ve used to own my differences, but nowadays it’s increasingly difficult to express myself through clothing, despite the swelling number of fast fashion and e-commerce options. The struggle is real.
The struggle is evidently genetic, too. My mom has been sewing her own clothes since she was a teenager, because nothing ever fit her. She went on to study textile design in Istanbul and became a master tailor who could tear anything apart and build it back up again, including my own clothes, when they weren’t bought on sale at Bi-Way. I inherited my mom’s body type for the most part; I have many of her hand-me-downs, most of which fit me perfectly in size, frighteningly so, and I still borrow her clothes to this day. Unfortunately, I didn't inherit her patience when it comes to sewing and design. I learned a few basics from her, but I never really "got" it. Sewing frustrated me to tears, as I sat in our basement unable to stitch a straight line.
In my teens, my clothes often needed to be tailored, and still do, but in the past few years, my mom's energy and passion for sewing has slowed down. These days, living in a different city from her, tailoring is an inconvenient option for me and for others who don’t have the time or money to invest. While shortening a pair of pants could cost at least $10 and take a few days to complete, it still adds to the price of a garment, if it can even be tailored — alterations tend to change the fit, not the style, of a garment, and certain garments, like those delicate knits, are near impossible to adjust. The investment in tailoring isn’t just financial, it’s emotional — shortening the sleeves of a structured coat might be worth the cost ($20 to $60), if you’re devoted enough to the piece and believe in its longevity.
When I’m having a frustrating shopping day, I talk to my other petite, curvy friends, all of whom are led to believe that having a big booty is an inconvenience. One of my friends, Helen, has resorted to taking sewing lessons at a local studio, and has already crafted a few items for herself. Every now and then, I'll find a fantastic brand and tell her about it, singing praises about how these jeans fit snugly in all the right places. But those moments are rare, especially in the current Canadian retail landscape. I’m in the process of moving on to other forms of self-expression, and not putting so much emphasis on shopping, since I don’t look forward to it as much anymore. Maybe it’s time to reconsider enrolling in some sewing classes and really calling the shots in my wardrobe.
Fashion is currently my coping mechanism, something to distract myself from something else more important hiding under the surface. In my constant search for clothes that don’t exist, I’m coming to terms with the fact that my next purchase will not reinvent me as a person, because clothing is ultimately ephemeral; it’s a constant cycle that ends and begins and continues on. While it’s true that fashion and style can be empowering, other times, we fall deep into their consumerist trap. We rely on them for personal transformation when, really, clothing and accessories and shoes are just disposable things that can be replaced.
Fashion can often make us feel like we've lost ourselves, especially when the clothing on the racks does nothing for our bodies. Looks aren’t everything, but it feels nice when we find our inner worlds reflected through clothing that matches our moods and personalities. But maybe we don’t need the perfect item to set us free. Perhaps we’re fine as we are, living at 5’4” and under, with our long hemlines and rolled-up sleeves, and owning it.