Notes from our founder
When my children were very small, my criteria were considerably less sophisticated.
Mostly, I wanted to know whether I could get the clothes onto them.
Could I pull the neckline over a baby’s head without a battle? Could I change a nappy without removing half an outfit? Could a toddler run in it? Could I wash it without thinking too much about it?
Then they got older and clothes became much more about them.
They developed opinions. Favourite colours appeared. Certain trousers were rejected for reasons I could never quite understand. There were things I loved that they simply wouldn’t wear, and things they chose again and again.
I started thinking more about clothes as part of childhood — not just what children wear, but how they begin to use clothes to express themselves and exercise a little independence.
And now, perhaps because I spend so much of my working life surrounded by clothes, I find myself looking at them differently again.
I’m interested in the garment itself.
What makes something worth wearing?
I notice the weight of a fabric now. I notice how a seam is finished, whether a waistband has enough give, how a knit recovers when you stretch it, whether a cotton jersey feels substantial or flimsy.
I think about why one sweatshirt still looks wonderful after being handed down and another somehow looks tired after a season.
And increasingly, I think that fabric and construction are inseparable from the question of sustainability.
We talk a lot about what clothes are made from, and rightly so. But we talk less about whether they are actually good clothes.
A beautifully certified garment that loses its shape, feels uncomfortable or is so impractical that a child rarely wears it isn't necessarily a better purchase. A piece that gets worn twice a week, washed repeatedly, passed down and worn again has a different kind of value.
That has made me much more interested in longevity than perfection.
The label is only the beginning
I still look for the things you would expect me to look for when choosing for Pip & Mim. I want to understand fibres, certifications and how things have been made. I care about what sits against children’s skin.
But I no longer think the composition label tells me everything I need to know.
Two garments can both say 100% cotton and feel completely different. One might be dense and soft and become better with washing. Another might twist, shrink or lose its shape.
And sometimes a small amount of another fibre is there for a very practical reason: to help a garment stretch, recover, keep its shape or withstand the particular demands we place on children's clothes.
I've become less interested in purity for purity's sake and more interested in understanding why a fabric has been chosen and whether it makes sense for the garment.
Clothes have a job to do
Perhaps that is the biggest thing that has changed for me.
I used to think about fabric as a characteristic of a piece of clothing. Now I think about it as part of what allows that piece of clothing to do its job.
A summer shirt needs to breathe. Leggings need to stretch and recover. A jumper needs to feel good against the skin. Trousers need to survive knees, climbing and sitting on the ground. A coat has an entirely different set of demands.
Children are particularly good at exposing the difference between clothes that merely look beautiful and clothes that work.
They don't stand still in them.
They climb, spill things, pull sleeves over their hands, fill pockets with stones, sit on pavements and wear the same favourite jumper three days in a row.
The clothes that become part of their childhood are usually the ones that can keep up.
What I look for now
I still love clothes first with my eyes. I don't think that will ever change. A beautiful colour or an unexpected shape is often what makes me walk across a showroom and pick something up.
But now I turn it over.
I feel the fabric. I stretch it. I look inside. I read the label. I ask what will happen to it after ten washes, and whether a child will actually want to wear it.
I know much more about fabric than I did when I started Pip & Mim, and there is still an enormous amount I don't know. In some ways, learning more has made me less certain rather than more.
Perhaps that is a good thing.
Because I no longer believe there is one perfect fibre, one perfect certification or one simple rule that tells us whether a piece of clothing is a good choice.
I think it is a collection of smaller questions.
How was it made? How does it feel? What does it need to do? Will a child reach for it? Will it last?
And maybe, after all the labels and terminology, that last part matters more than I once realised.
The best clothes don't spend very much time in the wardrobe.