The simple — but life-changing — pleasure of finding your actual bra size
Going without one entirely is valid too. Like most things, the freedom to choose is paramount. None of it should be compulsory, just as none of it should cause pain
Another unexpected heatwave arrives and suddenly you are hot, irritated and hyper aware of your body — fiddling with your sundress, wiping away sweat, ignoring the wire poking into your ribcage.
Like many of us, I was in the midst of early puberty the first time someone measured me with a tape and handed me a bra that never truly fit. My chest grew quickly and unevenly with the rest of me and for years I assumed the gaping, spilling, digging and constant rearranging was simply routine. A plea for comfort mostly invited eye rolls, as if having breasts was a punishment I had brought on myself and therefore had to endure, quietly.
By my early 20s, I’d grown tired of the game of chance whenever I bought a bra.
One day, I booked myself into a lingerie shop that had mannequins of various sizes in the window ranging from petite to curvy. I’d never seen that before. Inside, the fitter explained there would be no measuring tape involved. I was sceptical. Surely measuring was the whole point? But 40 minutes later, I had been converted.
I’d spent years blaming my boobs for being too big, when the actual issue was that my back was narrower than my cup size, and every bra I’d been put in before assumed both grew at the same rate. They don’t — not for most of us. Instantly, my clothes sat better and my posture felt like it improved overnight. Most surprising of all, I was supported and comfortable. It wasn’t a myth.
The winter following my first tape-free fitting, I ended up becoming a bra fitter myself and while it was only for a short period, the training is still with me a decade later. I am constantly practising restraint around family and friends when I see an ill-fitted garment, but more often than not, the urge to intervene cannot be overridden. “Can I please just?” I say, already reaching towards their chest. The answer is always yes.
They still submit to my adjustments, the shyer relatives standing stiffly as if at a medical appointment. Others rolling their eyes until my bra maths impresses, leaving me smug like a magician who had just pulled off her greatest trick.
What I remember most from my time in the fitting rooms is how many of the women apologised before we’d even started.
“Sorry about this old bra. Sorry, one side’s bigger than the other. Sorry, I’m not sure what size I am after the baby. Sorry, they used to sit higher when I was younger.”
I’d repeat the same thing each time: it’s not you. A changing body is not a crime. I loved witnessing the many moments of joy when a bra finally hugged the body just right. There was always a pause as the person waited for the pinching or poking to start. When it didn’t, they found the absence of pain almost suspicious — wasn’t that the trade off? Didn’t pain mean it was working, doing its job? Hadn’t we all accepted that womanhood came with endless compromises? After all, so much of our grooming is about tolerating pain that we often forget to consider our comfort in other areas. The expectation has always been to prioritise those looking at our bodies over those of us inhabiting them.
For a long time the only options for busts larger than a D were utilitarian and designed by people who seemed to have never seen a pair of breasts in real life, never mind have them. Thankfully, time has moved on and brought with it more options including wire-free garments, or indeed, the choice to not wear one at all.
Like most things, the freedom to choose is paramount. None of it should be compulsory, just as none of it should cause pain.
