I used to think satin tops were an occasion thing. One good top, worn to death every wedding and Christmas do for three years running, then shoved back in the drawer to sulk. Took me an embarrassingly long time to realise the reason it always looked a bit much wasn’t the fabric, it was that I was styling it like I was walking into a marquee every time. Heels, full face, the works. Turns out a black satin top doesn’t need any of that ceremony. It just needs you to stop treating it like fancy dress.
What makes one actually good is weight, not shine. Cheap satin has that slippery, static cling to it, you can see it clinging to a bra strap from across the room. A proper one has some heft, it moves rather than flashes, and the black stays black instead of going slightly grey under office lighting, which is a specific and depressing thing that has happened to me under specific and depressing office lighting.
Styled right, this is a properly hardworking top. Under a blazer with the collar just visible, it does smart without trying. With straight leg jeans and loafers it’s a Tuesday.
Tucked into a midi skirt with flats it stops being remotely fussy. I wore mine with the same navy trousers on a Monday for a client meeting and again on a Thursday to a friend’s leaving drinks, changed the shoes, added a coat, nobody clocked it twice, and if they did they said nothing, which I choose to take as a compliment.
That’s the actual case for it. Not that it’s glamorous, though it can be, but that it quietly solves the problem of not knowing what to wear on days that have two different moods in them, a nine to five that turns into something with wine at the end. It layers under a slouchy cardigan without looking like it’s trying too hard to be casual. It survives a desk lunch, mostly, satin hides a multitude of small sins better than cotton ever will.
Occasion wise, think less black tie, more the in-between moments, the dinner after work, the thing you didn’t plan an outfit for. That’s where it earns its keep.
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