We visited three types of second hand place today: a second hand cowboy boot shop, a standard thrift store and a consignment store. The last was an interesting experience and I spent much too much. I couldn't work out how the tags worked. There were subtle variations of colour which represented different percentages of discount. 'The peach ones are thirty percent off, but the apricot is full priced', for example. I re-scanned everything once I thought I had worked them out and selected a couple of pieces which then seemed to be charged to me at full price at the register. I left confused and willing to stick to thrift stores. The boot shop was lovely, nice people, heaps of boots. But because I have one pair now (here, here or here), the second pair I want is a fantasy pair based on ones I saw someone wearing years and years ago, which I can't quite recall, but which I will know when I see them. I didn't see them. And the last store, a Salvation Army, had an interesting clientele. It was prime eaves-dropping real estate and a great source of cheap leathers for skinny people. I indulged in the first, and except for a doesn't-quite-fit-but-can't-pass-it-by purple suede and snakeskin eighties iconic jacket, I didn't indulge in the second. I vacillate often on the topic of buying things that don't fit, but that I love and hope to one day squeeze into. It's why I have just as many unfitting clothes as fitting, and why this blog must go on beyond it's planned three hundred and sixty-five days, and until I have worn everything. Oh dear. What have I created? The definition of infinity?
Who wore it better?
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