Where did you get that dress?
I grew up in a small American town on the shores of Lake Michigan, an affluent resort community for the past 150 years. That's how barely 5,000 year-round residents got a Saks and shops that sold Paris-made hats and Scottish cashmere.
My mother waited for sales at "the summer shops" but occasionally bought at full price because my father did not want us labeled as 'sale people'. My parents were native Chicagoans, and would make the long drive back once each year to visit family, shop, and live it up.
I awaited their return, which, wardrobe-wise, was better than Christmas. They'd return hauling garment bags that held a tweed suit, silk party dresses, a peignoir, and four pairs of shoes. Exuberantly flowered hats in their boxes. And always things for me: a dress with a velvet bolero or a pair of leather pants, daring and sophisticated for our town. ("Don't look like a plow-jockey" was one of Mom's fashion credos.)
These sprees were necessary, she thought, because "you don't want to see yourself coming and going". While she saw the necessity of patronizing local businesses, she really preferred something from Marshall Field's.
In the etiquette of the small town, you did not ask where a dress was from. If you hadn't seen it on the rack at one of the stores, it was "from away", and took on much higher status for that. Sometimes a friend would show up wearing the dress you had agonized over and put back. That was hard.
Apparently the Obama inaugural ball included a registry so you could check whether another guest was planning to wear the same dress. If I were to attend a formal function, I hope I'd enjoy seeing two of us in the same gown, but ever since those "Who Wore It Better?" features, I'm not so certain.
My sons' girl friends dress identically, in jeans, hoodies and tees, whose provenance (Hollister, Abercrombie, Gap) is known by all. Only a few (usually art students) sift through Goodwill bins for the '70s high-waisted pants no one else has.
Do you care about exclusivity?
In one office, five of us bought the same Gap techno pant, because we all loved Lisa's pair. But in another office a co-worker misattributed the maker of an admired sweater so no one could buy the same style. I've also seen some women become deliberately vague about the source ("Somewhere on Bloor Street") or say they "don't remember".
Barbara Amiel, now Baronness Black, told a story about "where the dress came from." In her student days was poor. She found a two-piece Chanel silk dress in a resale store and scraped to buy it. A beau brought her to his impressive home for dinner, and his mother said, "I know that dress", then reached out to deftly turn the sash to show a small burn hole Amiel was hiding by a careful tie.
When I read her anecdote, I felt her embarrassment. Lady Black has been criticized for her extravagance. I wonder if that early incident was formative.
My mother waited for sales at "the summer shops" but occasionally bought at full price because my father did not want us labeled as 'sale people'. My parents were native Chicagoans, and would make the long drive back once each year to visit family, shop, and live it up.
I awaited their return, which, wardrobe-wise, was better than Christmas. They'd return hauling garment bags that held a tweed suit, silk party dresses, a peignoir, and four pairs of shoes. Exuberantly flowered hats in their boxes. And always things for me: a dress with a velvet bolero or a pair of leather pants, daring and sophisticated for our town. ("Don't look like a plow-jockey" was one of Mom's fashion credos.)
These sprees were necessary, she thought, because "you don't want to see yourself coming and going". While she saw the necessity of patronizing local businesses, she really preferred something from Marshall Field's.
In the etiquette of the small town, you did not ask where a dress was from. If you hadn't seen it on the rack at one of the stores, it was "from away", and took on much higher status for that. Sometimes a friend would show up wearing the dress you had agonized over and put back. That was hard.
Apparently the Obama inaugural ball included a registry so you could check whether another guest was planning to wear the same dress. If I were to attend a formal function, I hope I'd enjoy seeing two of us in the same gown, but ever since those "Who Wore It Better?" features, I'm not so certain.
My sons' girl friends dress identically, in jeans, hoodies and tees, whose provenance (Hollister, Abercrombie, Gap) is known by all. Only a few (usually art students) sift through Goodwill bins for the '70s high-waisted pants no one else has.
Do you care about exclusivity?
In one office, five of us bought the same Gap techno pant, because we all loved Lisa's pair. But in another office a co-worker misattributed the maker of an admired sweater so no one could buy the same style. I've also seen some women become deliberately vague about the source ("Somewhere on Bloor Street") or say they "don't remember".
Barbara Amiel, now Baronness Black, told a story about "where the dress came from." In her student days was poor. She found a two-piece Chanel silk dress in a resale store and scraped to buy it. A beau brought her to his impressive home for dinner, and his mother said, "I know that dress", then reached out to deftly turn the sash to show a small burn hole Amiel was hiding by a careful tie.
When I read her anecdote, I felt her embarrassment. Lady Black has been criticized for her extravagance. I wonder if that early incident was formative.
Comments
I too felt a little knot to the gut upon reading the anecdote. I would bet it did have much to do with her shopping habits. I know it would have affected me.
I think what is astounding here are the manners of the former owner of the outfit!
In my early 20's, during one of my non-conformist phases, I was into vintage bowling shirts, and used to comb the local thrift stores in the small town I lived in at the time. My favorite was a blue number with fuschia pink lettering and the name "Goldie Pokalski" embroidered on the front. One day I was wearing it around town doing some errands, and the guy behind the window at the post office said, "hey, why are you wearing my wife's bowling shirt?!?"
GP: In '60s Toronto a young-20s in Chanel was unusual. The former owner wanted to telegraph her judgment that Amiel was not an acceptable match for her son. Ghastly manners.
Pseu: Great story bet you were cute in a bowling shirt!
Except for accessories. I love me some shoes, bags and scarves and find them in unusual places. I pretty much live in a palette of bland basics so a giant handknit nubbly green scarf can cheer up a winter outfit to no end. And nobody is going to have anything like it ;)
08/who-wore-it-best-dont-answer.html
I've never minded people asking me where I got something as long as they don't ask what I paid.
Anne: Yes! Unique accessories make a generic outfit sing. (Another reason to love vintage.)
I tend to be more like Julianne anyway, so finding someone else wearing the same coat or dress or whatever isn't a problem for me -- with any luck, we'll style it quite differently anyway.
neki desu
I think it's more about how you put it together rather than just having the same item. I like to be more individual and creative in the way I dress.