There are exactly three things I would rather do than shop for new jeans: get a root canal, file my taxes, or sit through my cousin’s three-hour wedding video where he insisted on including unedited footage of the speeches. And yet, there I was on a rainy Tuesday afternoon, staring at my reflection in a John Lewis changing room, surrounded by a mountain of denim and questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.
It had started innocently enough. My trusty black Levi’s—the ones that had seen me through three fashion weeks, countless first dates, and that mortifying incident with the spilled red wine at my ex’s parents’ house—had finally given up the ghost. The worn-thin inner thigh ripped spectacularly as I was running for the bus, leaving me with that distinctive cold breeze in places one doesn’t want a cold breeze. There’s nothing quite like the walk of shame into Boots to buy emergency safety pins while trying to hold your jeans together with one hand.
After that humiliation, I knew it was time. But here’s my dirty little fashion editor secret: I absolutely dread jeans shopping. I know I’m supposed to love it—to wax lyrical about raw denim and selvedge and washes like I’m describing fine wines. But the reality is that finding jeans that fit when you’re a 5’4″ woman with the classic British pear-shaped figure (thanks, Mum) is like trying to find a taxi in central London at 5 PM on a Friday in the rain. Theoretically possible, but likely to end in tears.
So I hatched what seemed like a brilliant plan: go to John Lewis—the most sensible, well-lit, judgement-free zone in British retail—and try on every single pair of women’s jeans they stocked. Yes, all of them. The changing room attendant’s face when I walked up with my first armful was a picture. “Having a party, love?” she asked, raising an eyebrow at the towering stack. “More like an existential crisis,” I replied, and her knowing nod suggested I wasn’t the first woman to undergo such a denim-based breakdown in her changing rooms.
Three hours, 42 pairs of jeans, and one emergency Flat White later (brought to me by my saint of a friend Leila, who I’d texted an SOS to when I hit pair 28 and was losing the will to live), I had opinions. So many opinions. About rises and washes and why some brands seem to think that “mid-rise” can mean anything from “barely covering your modesty” to “up to your armpits.”
I started with the basics—Levi’s, naturally. The 501s that every fashion editor will tell you are the ultimate classic (while secretly wearing something far more comfortable when no one’s looking). I’ve owned 501s before, and they’re like that really good-looking person you date who looks fantastic in photos but with whom you never quite feel comfortable. These were no exception—they looked great standing still, but the minute I tried walking, sitting, or doing anything resembling normal human movement, they reminded me why they weren’t my go-to. Too stiff, too straight, too much like wearing cardboard tubes on my legs.
Next up, the Levi’s Ribcage jeans that everyone on Instagram swears by. Now, I love a high waist—they hold in the bits I want held in and generally make my legs look longer, which at my height is always welcome. But the Ribcage? Good lord. They weren’t kidding with that name. These jeans came up so high that I could feel them tickling my bottom ribs, and when I tried sitting down, I genuinely feared for the safety of my internal organs. “They look amazing, though,” said Leila, who had arrived just in time to witness me waddling out of the changing room like a denim-clad penguin. She wasn’t wrong—they did look great. But I’d like to breathe occasionally, call me old-fashioned.
I moved on to the mid-range offerings—your AND/OR, your Whistles, your J Brand if you’re feeling fancy. The AND/OR straight leg almost had me convinced until I realized that the back gap was so wide I could fit an entire Pret sandwich in there. The Whistles barrel legs made me look like I was auditioning for a particularly unglamorous reboot of MC Hammer’s career.
By pair 23 (Lee, straight leg, mid-rise), I was beginning to question whether my body was, in fact, uniquely unsuited to the entire concept of jeans. “Maybe I should just wear leggings for the rest of my life,” I moaned to Leila, who was by now settled comfortably in the corner of the changing room, scrolling through her phone and offering occasional encouraging noises. “You’d be thrown out of fashion week,” she replied, not looking up. She was right. There are rules.
The changing room was starting to feel like my own personal circle of hell. The lighting—why is changing room lighting always designed to highlight every dimple, bump, and that weird bruise you don’t remember getting? The heat—apparently John Lewis believes that the optimal temperature for trying on tight denim is “surface of the sun.” The mirrors—multiplying my denim despair from every unflattering angle.
By the time I hit the 30-pair mark, a strange calm had descended over me. I was no longer a fashion editor looking for the perfect jeans; I was an anthropologist conducting a study on the bizarre relationship between British women and denim. I took notes: “Waistband digs in when sitting but gapes when standing—who is shaped like this?” “Pockets so small they can’t hold a credit card—what’s the point?” “Distressed rips perfectly positioned to reveal the least flattering part of my knees—intentional design choice or act of aggression?”
Then, somewhere around pair 36, something miraculous happened. I pulled on a pair of straight-leg, mid-wash jeans from a brand I’d vaguely heard of but never tried—Albaray. No fireworks went off, no heavenly choir started singing, but as I turned in the mirror, I realized I wasn’t immediately cataloging flaws. They just… fit. The rise was high enough to hold everything in but not so high that I couldn’t breathe. The legs skimmed rather than clung. The back didn’t gap. When I sat down, they didn’t try to bisect me at the waist.
“These might be it,” I said quietly, almost afraid to jinx it.
Leila looked up, studied me critically, and nodded. “Your bum looks great, if that helps.”
It did help. I did that thing that every woman does when she finds jeans that actually fit—I walked around the changing room, I sat down, I squatted (yes, squatted—if you’re not squatting in potential jeans, you’re doing it wrong), I checked the back view, I checked how they looked with my boots, with my trainers, rolled up, full length.
“What’s the catch?” I asked the changing room at large. “Are they £300? Made of endangered denim? Will they dissolve in the rain?”
But no—they were £65, made from partly recycled cotton, and seemed sturdy enough to withstand actual movement. I was suspicious. Jeans shopping is not supposed to end this well.
For thoroughness (and because I’d committed to this ridiculous challenge), I tried on the remaining pairs. Nothing matched the Albaray moment. Some came close—an & Other Stories pair almost won me over until I discovered they had that weird seam that rubs exactly where your thigh crease meets your crotch (you know the one), and a Mint Velvet pair that would have been perfect if they weren’t apparently designed for someone four inches taller than me.
As I was getting ready to admit defeat on these last pairs, the changing room attendant—who by now was invested in my journey—popped her head around the curtain. “Try these,” she said, handing me another pair. “Just came in yesterday, and they’ve been flying out.”
They were from Nobody’s Child—another brand I was vaguely aware of but had never tried. I sighed, took them, and pulled them on without much hope. But damn it if they weren’t almost as perfect as the Albaray pair. Different cut—more of a relaxed straight leg with a slightly cropped ankle that would work perfectly with both boots and trainers. Similar high-but-not-rib-crushing waist, no back gap, and made my bum look like I’d actually been doing the Pilates I keep paying for but rarely attend.
“Plot twist,” said Leila, looking up from her phone. “You’ve found two pairs.”
I ended up buying both, because after three hours of denim hell, I deserved it. And because any woman who finds not one but two pairs of jeans that actually fit in a single shopping trip should probably buy a lottery ticket too—that kind of luck doesn’t come around often.
As we left John Lewis, laden with blue bags and in desperate need of something stronger than coffee, Leila asked if it had been worth it. “Ask me after I’ve had wine,” I replied. But the truth is, it was. Not just because I found jeans that fit (though hallelujah for that), but because the whole ridiculous experience reminded me of something important: despite what fashion wants us to believe, there’s no such thing as universal style rules.
For every fashion editor evangelizing about rigid denim, there’s a woman like me who needs a bit of stretch to accommodate the realities of a body that refuses to conform to sample size. For every influencer sporting the latest trend, there are thousands of us just trying to find something that makes us feel good when we catch our reflection.
The jeans I bought weren’t the coolest or the most fashion-forward in John Lewis. They weren’t the ones that the cool East London girls are wearing or the ones being featured in the fashion bibles this season. But they were the ones that worked for my body, my lifestyle, and the way I actually live rather than the way I sometimes pretend to on Instagram.
And isn’t that what personal style should actually be about? Not torturing ourselves into whatever silhouette is deemed acceptable this season, but finding the clothes that work with our bodies rather than against them.
So if you see a slightly smug-looking woman walking around London in either Albaray straight legs or Nobody’s Child relaxed jeans, it’s probably me, still quietly celebrating the day I found the holy grail—twice. And if you’re thinking of embarking on your own denim quest, I’ll just say this: take snacks, take a friend, and remember that if they don’t fit, it’s not your body that’s wrong—it’s the jeans.
Also, John Lewis changing room attendants deserve medals. And possibly therapy after watching so many of us go through the five stages of jeans-shopping grief on a daily basis.
