To which the simple answer is that the rule is the same for black tights as for oysters: That is, never in a month of Sundays. I have seen with my own eyes their honey-brown legs rising from Alexander McQueen ankle boots on days in February in Manhattan when my face aches with the cold after five minutes outdoors.
They are as mystical as unicorns, but flesh-and-blood creatures nonetheless. The black-tights question is the million-dollar question because it is not just about what you wear.
It is about how you order the priorities of how you look and what you get done.
It is about your postcode and your mindset, your taxi bill and your holiday schedule. The black-tights question is code for: This is why the only acceptable answer is the one I borrowed from the oysters. Zero-tolerance of tights is only not annoying if you are a diehard fashionista, the type that wears strange trouser shapes and weird shoes and goofball jewellery.
The black-tights issue is fundamental because it separates fashion as actually lived by actual human beings from fashion as seen on models. I wear black tights, when it gets really cold.
It is also a matter of cold, hard cash. It is an age issue, too, because bare legs are a youthful look. Thanks to fake tan, that great social-leveller of our age, having brown legs no longer means you actually go on six holidays a year.
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