‘The Traitors are laughing at you’: My week dressing like Queen Claudia in public

The last time I had a fringe, I cried. I wailed and sobbed and might even (don’t tell anyone) have punched the wall a little bit.

It didn’t just look bad – it looked horrific. Turns out, the old adage is true: never get a fringe cut after a major life event like a wedding (or a divorce).

Still, fast forward a good few years or so since I learned that crucial life lesson and I’m doing it again. Except that this time, it’s Claudia Winkleman’s fringe.

That’s right: in the interests of rigorous journalism (plus a healthy obsession with the TV show everyone is talking about), I decided to mimic my idol by sticking on a big clip-on fringe, heavy foundation and a chunky knit and see how the world reacted when I went full Traitors in the bread aisle of the local supermarket.

Could I pull off tartan and velvet, plus fingerless leather gloves on the school run? Would people give me suspicious looks for wearing floor-length faux-fur while getting petrol, and a wool cape on the bus – or (the horror) would they assume that I always dress like this? And what if my fringe fell off in the local park?

There was only one way to find out…

On the school run

Of all the gladiatorial social arenas, there’s none so savage as the school run – or the under 10s. ‘Why are you dressed like Michael Jackson?’ asks my son’s friend bluntly, staring at my charity-shop tartan and velvet blazer and my burgundy beanie; my one fingerless, studded, black leather glove (I lost the other one at some point in the late 1980s).

‘I’m dressed like Claudia Winkleman, actually,’ I say huffily, but kids are like sharks. They can smell fear. I don’t stand a chance as Claudia on the school run. I’m also quite worried my son will forever become known as ‘the one with the weird mum who dresses like Michael Jackson’, so I make a sharp exit.

Getting petrol

People are nodding at each other and over at me as I get out of my car at the garage, to ‘casually’ fill up with petrol. I panic and try to look mysteriously into the distance, like I’m thinking about the Traitors’ next kill.

What actually happens is that I spill petrol on myself and then have to do a weird, hopping dance to try and get it off my floor-length, faux-fur, vintage Lucien Daville Paris coat (£15 from a charity shop), which has the opposite effect of making people look more.

I feel like I’m about to be banished – from the forecourt. And quite possibly from the neighbourhood, altogether… a fear that is swiftly realised when a friend’s husband spots me and greets me with, ‘Well, you’ve gone ‘full goth’ mode – are you doing this for attention?’

At the supermarket

The local Asda on a weekday lunchtime isn’t usually the place for a Jayley leather coat with enormous black hairy collar and cuffs, a Victoriana jumper complete with a white ruff collar and black satin bow, Spanx leggings, a pair of Dr. Martens vintage ‘Made in England’ Chelsea boots and full make-up, even if it is East London.

Still, being East London, nobody (at first) bats an eyelid. I meander down the bread aisle and pause at the energy drinks, but decide that the last thing lovely, classy Claudia would consume is a can of Monster.

I think I’ve got away with being a doppelgänger in here – that is, until the man who usually serves me eyes me suspiciously from behind the counter. He double-checks my card and doesn’t give me his usual cheery goodbye. Oh, no. Banishment hurts.

On the bus

I doubt Claudia would choose to travel on the top deck into town, but – not having a sleek Land Rover Defender 110 with tinted windows at my disposal – I stand and wait for the bus, anyway. I’m wearing a vintage Ralph Lauren wool cape that I bought for £8 in a charity shop with a pair of Whistles Black Hatton Chunky Chelsea Boots as I beckon the driver over to the stop with my (one) stalwart gloved hand.

I’m en route to the library – there, I figure, I will find ‘my people’ – those happy to lose themselves in the world of literature and fantasy; so well-versed in world-building and poetry and romance that they won’t even throw a glance towards the woman wearing a massive fringe, nude lipstick and enough eyeliner to draw a road map. Wrong.

Desperate to hide myself from the curious glances, I head towards the self-help section. I definitely look like I need it. How does Claudia pull this off? And why does she look so good when I look like Noel Fielding?

In the local park

Claudia, when she’s not haunting the castle walls or dropping framed portraits of TV murder victims on the floor, can mostly be found in the woods during each series of Traitors, cavorting with banshees and looking cool in to-die-for funereal black.

I figured I too would be safe in the forest, blending in with dog walkers inHighlands-inspired couture (tweed jackets, posh wellies, beanies). A fine opportunity, I thought, for me to wear my old school kilt that I found in the cellar; to team it with a (men’s) chunky Barbour knit jumper, cherry-red vegan Dr Martens Chelsea boots and a vintage Zara gingham coat I got from (you guessed it) a charity shop.

The only problem is that I haven’t worn my actual school kilt since 1996. I feel like I’m being slowly suffocated – is this what it feels like when the contestants have to get into their own coffins? A handsome man with a dog walks past and does a double-take, but it feels like he’s more concerned about my wellbeing rather than mistaking me for the actual Claudia.

At the hairdresser

I have a longstanding appointment to have my hair cut, so I go wearing a chunky knit Whistles jumper, a pair of Black Hatton Chunky Chelsea Boots and the fringe (for a laugh). My hairdresser takes one look at me and says, ‘Vix – what have you done?’ in a voice that sounds – if anything – a bit sad. Oh, dear.

When I tell her I ‘just want to look like Claudia Winkleman’ and ask her if she’ll recreate the look for me for real, she shakes her head and simply says ‘no’. She then proceeds to tell me that she always advises clients if they’re doing ‘the wrong thing’. Devastating.

What have I learned? That having a fringe, wardrobe and face as striking as Claudia Winkleman’s is hard bloody work, actually. And that nobody can pull it off like she can. Nobody. Least of all, me

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