Who said fashion was superficial?

It doesn't rhyme with truck, and has nothing to do with women's liberation.

Everyone loves a compliment, and while I'm no less prone to flattery than anyone else, there's only a few I really crave.

Call me pretty, and I won't believe you. Call me smart, and I'll just smile politely. Don't say I'm tough, I'll just deny it and don't call me nice, because ... well that's just a really boring thing to call someone.

But tell me I'm fashionable, and I'll love you forever. You'd be the first, and probably the last, so I would always remember.

My early years, before the birth of three attention-sucking and pointless siblings, was the peak of my fashion career.

I would stand in front of my wardrobe with mum or grandma, hand-picking my daily outfit. My hit pieces included a blue woollen two-piece suit, and a thigh-length red coat better suited to the streets of London than a Canberra daycare.

My fashion sensibilities declined rapidly from there, besides a few happy pre-teen years rocking my favourite black tutu and sequined singlets. The tulle period was also when I first started wearing make-up, heavily kohled eyes framed by a jagged blonde fringe.

But as my teenage years got progressively harder, my clothes became less eccentric and more plain embarrassing.

Photos from my first overseas trip - to Italy, the world's epicenter of glamour - show questionable judgement. My staple outfit was lime green crocs, a bright orange t-shirt and a knitted boho tote. The greasy, lank hair really tied the look together.

At least the Italian outfits were intentional. Eventually, my school uniform became so unkempt the hem would drag down near my calves. I wouldn't even bother to disguise holes in tights with sharpies, let alone replace them.

For me, the outside tended to be a pretty good reflection of the inside.

I sometimes convinced myself the slobbiness was a feminist choice. I didn't brush my hair because it fed into a patriarchal construct, not because I didn't have the energy to look after myself.

Miserable years went by, and an active-wear day was a good one.

"You're a runner, right?" one person asked me. Ah yes, it may appear that way from my unwashed tights, dirty sneakers and stick-thin legs. But no, I just struggle to wash my laundry and have a clinically low appetite.

Counselling, medication and stable employment began a very slow process to better health. And as I became more well, my wardrobe expanded along with my waistline.

I didn't develop any actual fashion sensibility, but spent years scouring secondhand shops, department store season sales; and accepting hand-me-downs from stylish older women.

That's not to say everyone is a fan of the culmination of all that work.

I once spent $100 - which is a lot for me - on a floral floor-length dress with a high neckline. It's a pretty intense vibe, especially if I go for a high bun.

My teenage brother looked me up and down, eyebrows furrowed. "You look like a ninja."

I unveiled a satin yellow frock at a friend's birthday dinner, inciting such comments as: "Where are your shoulder pads?" and "Going for CEO, Lan?"

Call me fashion backward but just because I wasn't even alive during the 1980s, doesn't mean I can't don a power suit and demand a pay rise. Pop on my favourite olive green slim-fit pants, and I'm guaranteed to get a horse-riding crack.

So no, Vogue won't be calling me anytime soon, but I couldn't care less.

I'll take the snide remarks at my purple leather pants, because they are more to me than just a polarising style choice.

They are the ability to wake up, put a clean outfit together and face the day.

Is there anything more chic than that?