THE SAVVY SHOPPER
How thrifting, swapping and trading can save your bank account — and style,
When I turned 19, I received my share of my late mother’s estate, and I knew exactly how I wanted to squander my inheritance: on clothes. Lots and lots of clothes. I was in my second year of university, living on a bunny-covered campus in a cosy seaside town on the West Coast. These decidedly unchic environs made meeting the taste level set by my beloved fashion magazines and ’80s movies a struggle. Looking the part would help me live the part, I figured, so off I marched to the mall, my poor Visa unaware that it was destined to be ground into a translucent nub under the force of my shopping habit.
Spending thousands of dollars on clothes while clueless about investment dressing was bad enough, but I was also hemorrhaging cash during the 2000s, arguably the worst fashion decade of the past 100 years. Inspired by Carrie Bradshaw’s cavalier styling, I blew gobs of money on truly horrific ensembles that prominently featured candy-coloured V-neck tees, bejewelled and flower-decked tops and pastel corduroy blazers. Plus an actual fedora. My spending reached its nadir when I went to England and scooped up an assortment of designer clothes, including a D&G wiggle dress, a Karen Walker bustier and a $550 Dior wallet.
A friend viewed my $3,000 haul and whispered in horror, “You spent more in two weeks than I’ve spent in a year.” My inheritance was dwindling.
After I graduated, I moved to Toronto, where my shopping urges subsided somewhat, thanks to a busy schedule covering the fashion beat for a city blog.
A new friend, Lindsay, was an avid thrifter and she suggested I join her on Value Village runs. It was there that I learned the pleasure of foraging for treasure. The thrill of buying a trendy item at the mall felt cheap and faded quick. Emerging from the thrift store with a Versace-esque gold-embroidered ’90s LBD or a dainty textured taupe silk top for $5 felt like a real triumph. These pieces had history. In the dingy expanse of Value Village, I found fur-trimmed vintage coats in slate blue and hunter green and a beautiful buffalo plaid button-up dress made for twirling at holiday parties — all for a fraction of the cash I had been throwing at boring mall retailers. The clothes felt like living beings, special and strange, eager to come home with me for another adventure.
Then Lindsay invited me to a clothing swap thrown by a friend. There, piled in the centre of the room was a mountain of clothes, including several bright strata of ’70s print day dresses. Despite the variety of body sizes present in the room, everyone magically found a few pieces that worked perfectly for them. For a person heavily indoctrinated with the “reduce, reuse, recycle” mantra of the eco-mad early ’90s, this was my jam. Why spend your precious savings on new stuff from a store when you could shop your pals’ infinitely cooler closets for free?
I started throwing my own clothing swaps. I scored lovelies like a pink fuzzy sweater studded with pearls and designer jeans in exchange for … nothing. (Bonus: the leftover clothes were donated to charity.) Gathering a group of women in aroom created a warmth and camaraderie; it felt like community. We laughed at our fashion faux pas, offered advice on which trousers or blouses might work for this booty or those boobs, and tearfully surrendered cherished items — such as my red leather pencil skirt: sob! — to others so that it may ride again. I still remember the grace shown by my friend Chelsea, who relinquished a coveted black sweater with a sequined tiger emblazoned on it, because she knew I would love it more. I still wear it.
By the time I had become a senior editor at a fashion magazine, I had, ironically, pretty much stopped shopping altogether, subsisting on old vintage finds, swap scores and free stuff from work. When I did shop, I enjoyed playing patron to Canadian designers who produced their pieces here. I spent my money in boutiques that stocked independent labels. I diverted my fun budget from acquiring clothes toward experiences like travel. By giving up shopping as an activity, I was able to enjoy fashion more. And somehow, I looked better instead of worse.
After years of acquiring quirky vintage statement pieces, though, I wanted some fresh staples. By now, the idea of shopping actually made me anxious. It wasn’t exactly lightweight entertainment anymore when I used Will you want to keep this forever? and Is this destroying the earth? as my benchmark for buying something. I’d become so used to not purchasing stuff that it was hard to actually plunk down the cash, but there was another option.
I had been using the Bunz app to trade all kinds of stuff, from plants to vintage oil paintings, but the app was packed with fashion, too. Here was the perfect solution to better curating my closet: I could trade the objects and clothes I didn’t want for the clothes I needed, freeing up space in my apartment — and budget. Many Bunz-sourced beauties formerly destined for the landfill have kept me looking polished over the past couple years: a brown cocoon wrap coat that has bundled me through two winters, the perfect day-to-day delicate floral print maxi-dress, and an armful of velvet date night frocks in pink and maroon and teal.
Now that I’ve been living the secondhand life for nearly a decade, it’s rare for me to sport a look that isn’t some combo of items vintage, used, free or just plain old, with the lone newer designer piece rotated in occasionally. Some people feel cooler because they spent a fortune on their outfits. I often look down at my ensembles and smile, knowing they didn’t cost me a cent.