Paying More to Wear Less: Who Decided Girls Should Be Uncomfortable?

I have spent a ridiculous amount of my life looking for things that are apparently right in front of me. My keys, my phone, the television remote and, on one memorable occasion, my glasses, which were on my head. So perhaps it was inevitable that an ordinary pile of washing would eventually lead me into an existential crisis about women's underwear.

But here we are. I've been looking at gussets, comparing children's clothes and wondering whether the fashion industry has completely lost its mind.

And I'm angry.

Not mildly irritated because somebody has left a wet towel on the bathroom floor again.

Properly angry. The sort of angry that makes me put the kettle on, forget I've put it on, find it cold twenty minutes later and then remember precisely why I was furious in the first place.

Because the more I look at how girls and women are dressed, marketed to and encouraged to think about themselves, the more one question keeps coming back.

Why are we expected to change our bodies to fit clothes, rather than expecting clothes to fit our bodies?

The great gusset conspiracy. Well, not quite.

Let's start with knickers. Specifically, the gusset. That little piece of fabric that ought to be one of the least controversial things in the world.

Recently, I've seen women questioning why the gussets in some modern underwear appear so ridiculously narrow. Measurements of just 2.5 to 3.5 centimetres have been circulating, alongside claims that the average vulva is considerably wider.

Now, before somebody in a corporate office starts sweating into their polyester blend, those figures don't establish an industry-wide average. We need proper measurements across manufacturers, styles and years before claiming that gussets are systematically shrinking.

But the complaints themselves deserve attention.

Women are describing underwear that moves, digs in, rubs or simply doesn't provide the coverage they expected. And instead of asking why the garment is designed that way, we sometimes find ourselves wondering whether there's something unusual about our anatomy.

Excuse me?

My vulva has not submitted a planning application to extend into neighbouring territory. It hasn't staged a hostile takeover of my thighs. It's simply existing, as nature intended.

And it is not obliged to conform to the architectural ambitions of a three-centimetre strip of cotton.

There is genuine medical research behind the point that vulvas vary enormously. Research published in the British Journal of Obstetrics and Gynaecology examined anatomical measurements in 657 women and demonstrated substantial natural variation. The accompanying commentary warned against turning ordinary anatomical differences into supposed abnormalities.

That matters.

Because once we begin presenting one particular appearance as desirable, women whose bodies differ from it can be encouraged to see perfectly ordinary anatomy as something requiring correction.

And wouldn't you know it? There's often somebody waiting to sell us the correction.

My son gets clothes. My daughter gets expectations.

Now let's move to children's clothing, because this is where my patience really starts wearing thinner than a bargain-basement pair of leggings.

I look at clothes marketed to boys and see plenty of practical designs. Roomy shorts, comfortable trousers, decent pockets and clothes intended to survive the extraordinary physical demands of being a child.

Climbing, running, falling over, sitting cross-legged, getting covered in mud and somehow bringing half the garden indoors.

Then I look at some of the clothes marketed to girls.

Shorter shorts. Cropped tops. Tight-fitting styles. Decorative pockets that wouldn't accommodate a postage stamp, never mind the collection of stones, hair bobbles and mysterious objects that children apparently consider essential possessions.

Why?

Why should a little girl's clothes need to emphasise her appearance when her greatest ambition that afternoon might be to climb a tree?

I'm not suggesting every pair of girls' shorts is shorter than every pair of boys' shorts. Nor am I suggesting girls shouldn't enjoy fashion, colour, sparkle or whatever makes them happy.

My daughter is entitled to express herself however she chooses.

But choice means having practical alternatives, not being offered a narrower range of expectations dressed up as freedom.

I want her to be able to run, jump, explore and play without having to consider whether her clothes will stay where they're supposed to.

And I want her brother to enjoy exactly the same freedom.

That's equality. Not a marketing slogan printed on a pink T-shirt with a £4 premium.

Paying more for less. Literally?

And then we arrive at the pink tax.

That rather charming name for the decidedly uncharming possibility that products marketed towards females can cost more than comparable products marketed towards males.

Now, the evidence isn't as simple as saying every girl's garment costs more. Different materials, manufacturing processes and styles complicate direct comparisons.

But there are documented differences worth discussing.

In research on school uniform costs in England, published by the Department for Education, parents reported average expenditure for primary-school girls that was £23.56 higher than for boys. The difference for secondary pupils was much smaller, at £4.80, and the report noted that boys' PE kits could cost more.

That isn't proof that every retailer charges girls more for less fabric. But it does demonstrate why these questions should be examined rather than dismissed.

Because I would dearly love to understand the logic of paying more for something that provides less comfort, less coverage and fewer practical features.

What exactly am I buying? An exclusive membership to the Society of Women Who Can't Fit Their Phone in Their Pocket?

If a retailer charges more for a comparable female-marketed garment, I want to know why. If a pair of girls' shorts has less fabric and costs more, I want the manufacturer to explain what additional value justifies the price.

And if there is no meaningful difference beyond the label, perhaps the label is precisely where we should start asking questions.

Little girls growing older. Grown women growing younger.

This is the part that genuinely troubles me.

Look at the contradictory messages surrounding femininity.

Girls can encounter fashion and beauty trends encouraging them to imitate adult appearances. Meanwhile, grown women are bombarded with products promising to reverse ageing, erase wrinkles, conceal grey hair, smooth skin and recover a supposedly more desirable version of themselves.

So what exactly is the correct age to be a woman?

Fourteen is apparently too young to look fourteen, while forty is apparently too old to look forty.

There's a very narrow window in the middle where we're supposedly acceptable, although I suspect it lasts approximately eleven minutes and requires a ring light.

It's absurd.

And more importantly, it can be damaging.

I'm thirty-one. I have two children, a body that has lived a life, and an increasing suspicion that the beauty industry would prefer me to spend the next thirty years apologising for the passage of time.

Well, no thank you.

And I certainly don't want my daughter growing up believing that her value increases when she looks older, only to discover that she's expected to spend adulthood desperately trying to look younger.

There is nothing wrong with a girl enjoying clothes or a woman enjoying cosmetics. There is nothing wrong with wanting to feel attractive, either.

The problem begins when commercial messages turn ordinary development, ageing and anatomical differences into reasons to feel inadequate.

We should also be very clear about sexualisation. A child is never responsible for somebody else's inappropriate interpretation of her appearance. That responsibility belongs to the person doing the sexualising.

But companies are responsible for how they market products to children.

And the rules already recognise that.

The Advertising Standards Authority prohibits advertisements that portray children, or people who appear to be under eighteen, sexually. It has upheld complaints against fashion advertising involving children presented in adult-style poses and styling.

So this isn't simply an oversensitive mum getting cross about a crop top.

There are legitimate questions about how commercial imagery influences what society expects girls and women to look like.

Why isn't this treated more seriously?

Here's something that surprised me.

British advertising rules already prohibit gender stereotypes likely to cause harm or serious or widespread offence. Guidance also addresses advertising that suggests happiness or wellbeing depends upon conforming to an idealised body shape or particular physical features.

So the principle is recognised.

Yet I wonder whether we spend enough time examining the cumulative effect of these messages.

One advertisement tells you your skin needs improving. Another tells you your stomach needs flattening. Another offers to restore your youth. Another promises underwear that will sculpt you into a more desirable shape.

Individually, some of those products may be perfectly reasonable. People are entitled to buy them, enjoy them and make their own choices.

But collectively, what are we teaching women?

That our bodies are ongoing renovation projects?

That every natural change is a defect?

That comfort is optional, but attractiveness is compulsory?

And what happens when our daughters begin absorbing those messages before they've even had the opportunity to understand their own bodies?

I don't need to prove that fashion executives are sitting around a sinister boardroom table plotting to make women miserable. There may be no coordinated conspiracy at all.

The commercial incentives alone are worth examining.

If insecurity helps sell a product, what incentive does a company have to encourage people to feel perfectly content without it?

That's a question about commercial responsibility, not an accusation against every person working in fashion.

And it's one I think deserves considerably more public scrutiny.

Naturism taught me something the fashion industry never could.

One of the things I value most about being a naturist is how ordinary bodies become when nobody is trying to sell you an improved version.

At home, I'm not constantly evaluating whether my body conforms to the latest fashionable silhouette. I'm making breakfast, sorting washing, answering questions from my children and trying to remember why I walked into the kitchen.

My body is simply my body.

It isn't a before photograph waiting for an after.

It isn't an invitation for somebody else's judgement.

And it certainly isn't a failed attempt at fitting into a manufacturer's preferred measurements.

That doesn't mean naturists never enjoy clothes, cosmetics or fashion. Of course we do. It means those things don't have to determine our relationship with ourselves.

I want my daughter to understand that distinction.

I want her to know that clothes are supposed to serve her, not the other way round. That her body will change as she grows, and that change is ordinary. That she doesn't owe anybody beauty, youthfulness or a particular silhouette.

And I want my son to grow up knowing that girls are not decorative versions of boys. They deserve the same comfort, freedom, respect and opportunities.

Neither child should have to earn the right to feel comfortable in their own skin.

I'm not buying it any more.

I started this entire train of thought with a pair of knickers.

I have somehow travelled through anatomy, children's clothing, advertising regulation, gender expectations and the economics of insecurity. There is still a washing basket in the hallway, I've forgotten to eat my toast and I suspect my daughter has borrowed my hairbrush again.

Welcome to my brain. Tickets are free, but there is absolutely no guarantee of a direct route.

Yet beneath all the tangents, my frustration is very simple.

We shouldn't accept uncomfortable clothing as the price of femininity. We shouldn't accept commercial pressure to disguise ordinary bodies as an inevitable part of growing up. And we certainly shouldn't accept the sexualisation of children as merely another fashion trend.

Manufacturers should be able to explain their design decisions. Retailers should be challenged over unjustified pricing differences.

Advertisers should be held to the standards already established to protect children and discourage harmful stereotypes.

And as consumers, perhaps we should stop assuming that a garment which doesn't fit is evidence that our bodies are wrong.

Because there is nothing wrong with a woman having a body that looks like a woman's body.

There is nothing wrong with a girl looking her age.

There is nothing wrong with ageing.

And there is absolutely nothing wrong with expecting your knickers to cover the anatomy they were designed for.

So here's my question: if we want our daughters to grow up believing their bodies are already worthy of respect, why are we still allowing commercial expectations to tell them otherwise?