Bra Shopping & Body Shaming Shrapnel, by Claire Wilsher

Bra shopping. You walk in, clutching only a few lacy items as armour, and speak words that feel like barbed wire on your lips.

“Can I be fitted please.”

There is an episode of Father Ted that shows some priests getting stuck in the “largest lingerie section in the whole of Ireland”. Such a shining moment in television history, that in 2014 a local councillor campaigned to get the shop in which it occurred recognised as an official landmark in Ireland. The clip itself contains priests crouching behind pants stands sobbing that they can’t go on, rousing speeches and near bloodshed when one man gets a bra strap to the eye. Never has a TV sequence been more relatable. Strip back the priesthoods and really, we all face the terror of the bra section in our own special way.

Your first bra is always exciting. You’ve seen the girls getting changed for PE with their crop tops, but you, with your bare chest, have always felt a bit inadequate. The first time is a monumental step. It takes you into the ranks of being proud to pop your PE top off. Proud to present your M&S training bra, that holds your nipples firmly in place. But it seems, the older you get, the more bra shopping becomes less of a monumental moment and more just another traumatic experience to add to the list of mundane adulthood drama.

Brazilian or shorts, full cup or balcony, g-string or high cut? When did people learn all this? At what point did the female population work out that cotton is the one for them? That mesh was cool, but silk was not. At what point did they graduate from the school of priesthood and into the glorious isles of womanhood. An aisle that, as I shuffle awkwardly between the rows of breast supporters, feels many millions of miles away from my sweaty stressed existence.

There you are, feeling inadequate between the images of perfectly shaped breasts on the wall, your grandma waiting patiently for you as you sink further and further into the depths of self-loathing. Finally, you see it. Between the rows of bras that look more suited to those who specialise in the use of whips and chains and those so silky there seems to be a real risk of them just sliding off somewhere into the region of your armpit.

A normal one. A normal bra that looks like it will hold your boobs. It may even look okay. You think you’ve faced your demons, risen from the trenches, but that’s when you realise all you’ve really done is poke your head up. You’re going over the top. That’s when the cry goes up, the cry that every bra-soldier dreads. The words slip easily from your sergeant’s (grandma’s) lips;
“Do you think you should go get fitted”
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Your heart plummets, you go to wipe your sweaty forehead but realise your arms are covered in 10 different sizes of the same bra. You realise that you’ve reached so far back into the abyss of the back of the bra rail that your arm is actually attached to it. You accept your grandma may be correct. 
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"So you make the long walk across no man’s land, dodging images of brunette sex bombs and blonde bombshells in bras. You make it to the changing room; your self-confidence only having lost a few limbs to body shaming shrapnel."

You walk in, clutching only a few lacy items as armour, and speak words that feel like barbed wire on your lips.

“Can I be fitted please.”

They are inevitably lovely. Pretending politely not to notice the beads of sweat on your forehead and the bra clasp induced scratches on your cheeks.

“Just pop into that changing room and someone will be right in.”

You get in there. The cold white walls pressing in on you. Mirrors on all sides. All sides. Who on earth thought that was a good idea? There are areas of my back that I have only seen in a lingerie changing room, areas that should remain unseen.
Do you take your top off straight away? Is that too keen? Would it be weird if you didn’t? Bra on? Bra off? Definitely bra on.

Suddenly under the harsh lighting, your 3-year-old bra, that was at some point white, but is now more of a grey/blue/brown mixture and is so stretched out that you’re basically wearing a small cropped vest top to cover your nipples, feels somewhat inadequate.

No time to dwell though, as Sandra the bra saleswoman arrives. Thundering in bosom first. She has clearly never worn a cropped vest top and called it a bra. She relishes her rack and is a stronger woman for it. Sandra is who we all aim to be in the world of boobs. A proud owner of her blobs.

She’s the lady in Bend It Like Beckham who says ‘with my sewing we can make even these mosquito bites look like juicy juicy mangoes’. She is the type of woman who says things like ‘you know what, if you’ve got it flaunt it’. She would buy tops because they fitted nicely and not because they were on the £1 rail in the charity shop. She takes on life breast first. Best breast forward. One small breast for Sandra one huge breast for womankind. She probably has all of these tattooed somewhere on her body.

You immediately trust Sandra and her fantastic breasts wholly and completely. You think this could really be it. The moment you become a Sandra and not a Claire. She does that strange inspection where they sort of lift your bra out and move it so it actually fits on your body in a normal way. You wonder where it was before Sandra walked into your life. It feels distinctly like you’ve accidentally been wearing it somewhere near your ear and suddenly with Sandra’s help, it’s finally found its way home.
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She announces your size, delving into that strange pot of knowledge mere mortals will never be privy to, but allows bra ladies to just look at you and confidently yell ‘34C!’ In a way that makes you feel you have found your place in the world.

She announces your size, delving into that strange pot of knowledge mere mortals will never be privy to, but allows bra ladies to just look at you and confidently yell ‘34C!’ In a way that makes you feel you have found your place in the world.

But like finding a label that you think fits you, this sizing label and Sandra’s iron boobed grip suddenly feels a bit restrictive when the inevitable happens. She says
I’ll pop and get you some similar bras to the ones you’ve picked out.
There is nothing similar about the bras Sandra returns with. Except maybe the hangers.


It’s one of those moments where you should just say something. If you were a Sandra, you would tell Sandra that these bras are not for you. Could she please get you some different ones? But instead you find yourself aged 23 in an M and S changing rooms trying on a bra with more lace on it than a shoelace and a metal heart dangling between your boobs. What similarity Sandra saw between this and the plain T-shirt bras you grabbed in panic will forever be a mystery.

Your options are as follows. You can wither politely, say that these bras aren’t for you, could you be brought a few more to your taste. No one’s feelings are hurt. Sandra obviously doesn’t really care. This service is actually for you, and not her. She actually wants you to get the bra you want. You can see your alternate ending. The one where you stride out breasts thrust forward in a boob holder that both articulates the image of who you want to be breast-wise and also takes into account who you actually are. Empowering and accepting, the new you, breasts swaddled in the perfect outer layer. You will deftly balance, taking on a promotion, smashing the patriarchy, mastering poaching eggs, learning the final verse of the Fresh Prince of Bel air rap you’ve been struggling with, whilst taking at least 10 minutes time out of your daily routine to cuddle a cute fluffy animal. That could be you.

But as always, you choose path number 2. You say ‘oh yes Sandra, now that is a bra, how did I miss it’. Particularly with the diamontes and the picture of a pug on the left boob. You stand there looking at yourself knowing full well that this bra will never get worn. It will sit in your knicker drawer by the dominatrix style one. That one was gifted by Susan the woman who told you to make the most of your sexuality, embrace it. What Susan meant was embrace her ideas of sexuality. The reality of that, is you hiding your chafing leather bra under a baggy t shirt in the hope that no one notices and worrying all day that you might accidentally have sex and then think of Susan in the crucial moment.

So you get to the till in M and S, shoulders hunched from the weight of the breasts that now feel like a burden to your very sense of self. You look down at the lacy monstrosity in your basket and you think no. You reach over to the t-shirt bra section. The safe, safe t-shirt bra.

There will not be another headstone in the graveyard of your bra drawer today. Not even under the watch of Sandra. There will be a t-shirt bra. Disgustingly normal. Outrageously average. Named by the outer layer it seeks to hide beneath, it doesn’t even need its own acknowledgement.

​So you stride out. Breasts forward. Breasts hidden nicely by your t-shirt. You wink at Sandra on your way out. She gives you a nod at your newfound breasty confidence, imagining it’s the lacy monstrosity that has ordained you with this power. You feel that T-shirt bra and you realise you have found your boobed home. Your boobs aren’t being pushed about. They aren’t being flattened out. They are being left be.

Be your own Sandra guys. Believe in your own boobs.

Tale by Claire Wilsher, Images by Jaz Moodie (@jazmoodie)

Your boobs aren’t being pushed about. They aren’t being flattened out. They are being left be.

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