In truth, when my delivery of the Jacquemus Le Mini Chiquito arrives, it barely holds a Tic Tac. In fact, at 5.2cm wide, it’s veritable finger candy. I take my house key off its ring and squeeze it into the bag, along with one lone mint. Then I shove my ID and credit card into my jean pockets, slap on some hand sanitiser, and head out the door.
I feel… like a man. Without a cumbersome carry-all slapping rhythmically against my hipbone, I’m liberated and lighter—2.76 kilograms lighter to be precise (that’s the average weight of a woman’s handbag.)
A diminutive bag also fast-tracks a digital detox, and I leave my phone at home most days. It feels naked but nice, like a sneaky skinny dip on a balmy summer’s night. That said, it’s a little ironic: this bag is social media gold, designed surely for its meme-ability, yet to cart around the phone you need to create said content, you’d better be wearing pockets
I take the bag to meet my friends and they ooh and aah over its cuteness, passing it around the dinner table like a baby. “What shall I name her? Pepita?” I ask. “Petite-a!” a friend chimes in. That’s the thing about an offbeat piece of fashion it’s a fail-safe conversation-starter. Later that night, as I wait to be served at the bar, I feel a set of eyes peering into my side. “That’s a really small bag,” a poloshirted man deadpans. It’s not the most inspiring opening line, and his droopy blue eyes suggest he’s not quite lucid, but I have to smile. It’s the first social interaction I’ve had with a stranger in months.
Going forward, I’ll be upsizing from my sweet Chiquito, but I’ve decided I want a bag that befits the woman I want to be: she who travels light and who lets go of stuff that doesn’t serve her. Or, in the words of the great philosopher Lizzo, who toted a teeny-tiny Maison Valentino purse to this year’s AMAs, a bag “big enough for my fucks to give”.
