Picture it: Philadelphia, the fall of 1996. It was the start of art school, and it was my thrift shop awakening. In high school, my personal style had been simplicity: three pairs of pants, some solid color t-shirts, and a couple button downs I selected from my parents’ LL Bean catalog. I had so few items in my possession that I was worried one bag lost by an airline would result in the elimination of my entire wardrobe. I favored navy blue, leading to a Reservoir-Dogs-inspired high school nickname of Mr Blue. Cool. In the art-saturated university context, however, my nickname became Blue Boy (as in the portrait by Thomas Gainsborough). Not cool. I became interested in diversifying my clothes.
I assume personal reinvention is common among freshmen at all colleges, but this drive manifested among my peers in an extreme way. Tyler School of Art condensed the most artsy teens within a two-hour drive. Away from the moderating influence of their parents and past classmates, freshmen quickly updated their respective looks with new face piercings, shaved and dyed hair, tattoos, and eccentric clothing. The punky got punkier, hippies groovier, and the basically-attired could take on whatever eccentricity they fancied. This heightening of styles was made easy by North Philly thrift stores.
Apart from incorporating more colors in my closet I didn’t alter my look much. I was, however, very taken with the distinct secondhand outerwear that appeared on campus as the weather grew colder. Cool 1970s leather jackets like Gene Hackman or Richard Roundtree might have worn were common. A photography major I knew found one with a charismatic fur lapel. I found a jacket with a fur color, but it wasn’t leather. I got myself a security guard bomber jacket with a blue faux fur collar and embroidered badge patch. This jacket once prompted a salute from another driver, as I looked not unlike a Fargo highway patrolman behind the wheel of my dad’s Ford Mercury Grand Marquis. My career appropriation continued with a second hand gray auto center jacket and a surplus navy pea coat.
Me in my blue security jacket, 1996.
A jewelry major I had a crush on wore a striped Marty McFly style puffy vest almost every day in the fall. Puffy 1980s vests were something of a trend: popular with the hottest of jewelers and graphic designers. I got an off-brand blue track jacket with four white stripes on the sleeves instead of Adidas’ three. Fake fur jackets were in abundance. Overall, student style in the class of 2000 was eclectic and full of character.
The following twenty years I visited thrift stores seldom and thought little of clothes generally. My habits changed in 2020 as I began browsing secondhand clothes on Poshmark and Depop. This then led to a renewed interest in in-person thrifting. I now live in Tucson where there are regular flea markets and vintage clothing markets, and every other block seems to have a thrift store. I’ve mapped out a loop where I regularly drive to six in succession.
Puffy vest in the late 1990s, me in a vintage vest I found at Savers this year.
I don’t see cool 1970s jackets on the hangers anymore, but last year I got nostalgic buying my own 1980s puffy striped vest at Savers. At Goodwill I grabbed a Pendleton plaid wool jacket for only $7 because it had moth holes (which I easily repaired by felting). This was endlessly more satisfying than if I had purchased the $275 new version at Pendleton’s Scottsdale store.
A consignment store in nearby Bisbee held my greatest second hand triumph. I spotted (it was hard not to) a golden yellow velvet tuxedo by Dolce and Gabbana. I’m 90% sure it’s authentic, and it cost only $90—complete with perfectly fitted trousers.
I can report that thrift stores remain a rewarding source for artsy outerwear and everyday pieces. The key is to browse frequently and be open to what the universe provides.
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This piece originally appeared in The NY Fashion Geek newsletter.