The invitation arrived via a newsletter I apparently subscribed to during a period of my life I can no longer fully account for. 'Are you still carrying the weight of a former aesthetic?' it asked. 'Join us for a transformative Fashion Funeral — a sacred space to honour, release, and transcend the style identities that no longer serve your highest self.'
The cost was £90. The location was a 'ceremonial studio' in Hackney that I strongly suspected was a converted garage. The practitioner was a woman named Araminta who described herself in her bio as a 'grief-informed style therapist and aesthetic transition guide.'
Reader, I booked it immediately.
The Pre-Funeral Intake Form
Araminta sent a preparatory questionnaire forty-eight hours before the ceremony. It asked me to identify the 'aesthetic era I was seeking to release', describe my 'most emotionally loaded garment from that period', and rate, on a scale of one to ten, how much unresolved shame I still carried about my relationship with low-rise denim.
I answered honestly. My era was Y2K, roughly 2001 to 2006. My most emotionally loaded garment was a pair of combat-style cargo trousers from Tammy Girl that I wore approximately three hundred times and believed made me look like a member of a girl group who had recently survived something. My low-rise shame score was a seven, which Araminta's follow-up email described as 'an excellent starting point for release work.'
I arrived at the studio — which was, I can confirm, a converted garage — to find three other women already seated on floor cushions. There was a woman named Deborah, 39, who was there to grieve her 'indie sleaze phase' and had brought a photograph of herself in a babydoll dress and Converse as, in her words, 'evidence.' There was Priya, 34, releasing what she called her 'fast fashion maximalist self' from approximately 2014 to 2019. And there was a woman who introduced herself only as 'formerly Boho' and declined to elaborate.
Araminta entered wearing what I can only describe as ceremonial linen, carrying a small bundle of dried herbs and a clipboard.
The Ceremony Itself, Reconstructed From Notes
We began with a grounding exercise in which we were asked to close our eyes and 'locate, in the body, the place where your former aesthetic still lives.' Araminta walked us through this with the solemn authority of someone who has done an online certification in trauma-informed coaching and has fully committed to the bit.
I located my Y2K self somewhere in my lower ribcage, which Araminta said was 'very common for cargo trouser grief' and suggested a 'held identity wound around practicality and irony.'
We then moved to what Araminta called the Eulogy Portion.
Each participant was invited to speak about their departed aesthetic with the same care and specificity you might bring to a funeral address. Deborah spoke movingly about her indie sleaze years, noting that while the smudged eyeliner and the questionable venue choices had caused her genuine harm, she was grateful for the music and the sense that being slightly unwashed was, briefly, a personality. Priya delivered a measured but emotional farewell to her sequin bomber jacket era, acknowledging that she had bought seventeen of them and that this was, in hindsight, 'too many sequin bombers for one woman to process.'
When it was my turn, I held my cargo trousers — yes, I had brought them; yes, Araminta had asked us to bring a 'symbolic artefact' — and said goodbye. I thanked them for their service. I acknowledged that the six pockets had made me feel capable of adventure even when I was only going to Bluewater shopping centre. I admitted that I had, on at least two occasions, put a Nokia 3310 in one of those pockets and felt genuinely powerful.
Araminta nodded throughout with the expression of a woman who has heard things.
The Vision Board Burning
The climax of the ceremony involved a vision board. We had each been asked to create one in advance, featuring images that represented our former era. Mine included Paris Hilton, a Von Dutch trucker hat, a still from the 'Dirrty' video, and what I believe is a promotional image for the Lizzie McGuire Movie.
We burned them in a small fireproof dish that Araminta produced from a canvas tote bag. The smoke smelled of rosemary and, faintly, of melted laminate, because Deborah had made the rookie error of laminating hers.
As my vision board caught fire, I felt something. I am not entirely sure what it was. It may have been closure. It may have been the smoke. It was possibly just the vague light-headedness that comes from sitting cross-legged on a floor cushion for ninety minutes while a woman in linen tells you that your identity is in transition.
The Certificate
At the conclusion of the ceremony, Araminta presented each of us with a printed certificate on thick card stock. Mine read: This is to confirm that [my name] has honoured, witnessed, and released her Low-Rise Era (2001–2006) and is now free to inhabit her emerging aesthetic with full presence and self-compassion.
It was signed by Araminta. It had a small wax seal. I have put it on my fridge.
Deborah wept. Formerly Boho said she felt 'lighter', though she had not removed her coat for the entire session so I cannot verify this. Priya immediately texted someone and then looked guilty about it.
I walked home through Hackney carrying my cargo trousers under one arm and my certificate under the other, feeling neither healed nor defrauded, but somewhere in the peculiarly modern middle ground between the two.
Araminta has a waiting list of six weeks. She is currently developing a group intensive for women still processing their 2010 Tumblr era.
I am, somewhat against my better judgement, considering it.
