Second-hand Cashmere

I decided to get smart.  Instead of shopping around at chain stores, trying to find a semi-formal dress for my cousin's June wedding, I was going to do something I hadn't done in many years: visit this store that sells gently used designer clothing on consignment.

When I was a kid my parents were struggling on every level, including financially. My mom used to take me shopping at the thrift store regularly.  I thought it was great.  No two items alike - now that's a very interesting kind of store!  Some of my favourite clothes, like my multi-coloured hippie poncho, had been pre-loved.  And they all came with that magical, mysterious, back-of-the-closet smell embedded deep within the cloth.

I continued to buy second-hand until I married Ken.  He convinced me to buy new clothes more consistently, as part of an overall self-esteem-boosting makeover.  After watching five seasons of What Not To Wear, I got pretty good at dressing myself.  I figured out that I'm not a size Medium, for example, and that wearing clothes from the boys' section wasn't the best way to flatter my figure.

Shortly after I cut out my visits to Value Village, Toronto's media started paying a lot of attention to the city's booming bedbug population.  Bedbugs can travel via clothing.  My new habits had one more reason to stick.

However, after years of buying exclusively new clothes, I decided to trust Ex-Toggery.  Supposedly they're picky about the clothing they take in.  I guess it's no worse than going to any other public space in the same neighbourhood, like sitting in a theatre seat that someone else has just vacated.

When I entered the store, the first thing that hit me was that musty, back-of-the-closet smell.  It hasn't changed since the 1970's.  What makes clothes smell like that?  I mean, even clean clothes smell like "closet" when you haven't worn them in a while.  What is up with that?

There was a pretty good selection of clothing on the racks.  Nice cashmere sweaters for $50.  Silk blouses.  Top line designer jeans.  I flipped through the hangers to see if any amazing finds would jump out at me, but nothing did.  A couple of pretty tops that caught my eye were both labelled "dry clean only", so forget that.

I inspected two racks full of dresses.  There was only one that I liked that was also in my size: a Holt Renfrew house brand frock.  The tag claimed the original ticket price was $500.  It could be mine for a mere $100.  It looked well made.  It was a dark, almost violet blue; sleeveless; lace laid over a layer of thick satin; a plain, fitted top flaring at the waist into a knee-length skirt.  I tried it on.  The zipper stuck.  It fit perfectly except for the waist, which was uncomfortably tight.

And that was the long and the short of my shopping experience at the thrift store.  I didn't find a dress, but it was kind of fun poking through the cast-off designer duds of the super-rich (or the super-in-debt, more likely).

I did have a mildly unpleasant encounter with a sour sales clerk.  I had already been in the store for around 15 minutes when she approached me to insist that I leave my granny buggy at the front of the store.  I told her I was happy to let her search it when I left, but since I was using it to hold my wallet and my cell phone (in a side pocket of the lining) I was not comfortable surrendering it to her.  She wasn't open to negotiations.  She said again, sourly, "I'll just put this at the front," took the handle right out of my hands, and wheeled it away.

I wasn't pleased, but there was hardly anyone in the shop, so I decided to relax and assume that everything would be fine.  So I did, and it was.  No one stole my stuff.  I didn't miss any calls.  Still, I'll think twice before I go back.  I'll make sure I bring a proper purse, next time, when I'm in the mood to buy some cheap cashmere.