SWITCHING TO VINTAGE

Traci O’Dea shares her experience of vintage clothing, and explains why she won't be buying new garments anytime soon

When I heard the first rip, I was dancing a reel in a muggy marquee outside a castle in the Scottish Highlands. As soon as the band stopped, I skittered to the cramped posh loos and checked around the back of my vintage 1950s floor-length gown in glittery peacock-blue (the same shade as the chemical-filled liquid in the toilet bowl). The fabric of the dress hadn’t torn, but the thread holding the dress together in the back had split to about two inches below my bum— definitely not in compliance with the strict dress code policy at the Northern Meeting Ball, and as a brash American, I knew they wouldn’t cut me any slack. (Before dinner that evening, an Englishman had been forced to change because he’d shown up in black tie instead of white tie—the horror!) About an hour later, I discovered a second rip—the threads again—a three-inch gap around the waist seam between the mermaid-tight skirt and the surplice top. I was relieved to realise that my awkward dance moves were not to blame for the seam-splits; rather, the heat and vigour of the Scottish reeling had likely caused the 69-year-old threads to rot.

The gown was falling apart around me, my dance card was booked for six more reels, and I had to hide the indecent peepholes in my dress. I made it through the next dance unscathed but then, during the exuberant ‘Inverness Country Dance’, as my bekilted partner twirled me around the room like a contestant in Strictly and ran me up and down the parquet floor, the slit in the back ripped again - all the way up to the base of my spine. Luckily, I had on nude tights and some heavy-duty shapewear, rendering me as sexless as a naked Barbie doll, but I could imagine the prim and proper ladies and gents at the ball were shocked and scandalised. I quickly found a chair and sat out the last few dances in a 1920s puffy-lapelled black velvet smoking jacket to cover up the disintegrating ball gown that, after I’d been perspiring all night inside the humid tent, had started to emit a faint smell of cat urine.

Most of my clothes don’t smell like cat piss or fall apart. That night was a worst-case scenario for someone who only wears used clothes. In March, I posted on Facebook ‘My goal is to stop buying myself newly manufactured clothing (aside from underwear). Anyone else already doing this?’ My UK bestie who now lives in Kansas City replied, ‘I'm with you. There's an amazing store here called Revive… It's all really good quality and much nicer than you can find at the mall. I just treated myself to a bag and a pair of boots.’ A friend in Oregon commented, ‘Kade and I have done this for several years. He took some sewing lessons which helped us widen our search possibilities at consignment stores!’ Another friend posted a Macklemore ‘Thrift Shop’ meme, and of course, my smartass husband had to chime in, ‘If you insist on buying first-hand underwear, you should buy smaller knickers to save the planet.’ Amongst dozens of positive comments and likes, there were only two somewhat negative responses, a simple, ‘No’ from a pal in the British Virgin Islands and a crying-with-laughter emoji from my shopaholic sister.

Here in Jersey, I encountered some in-person debate with friends and some less-than-useful gaslighting, but then I had one friend, the last one I’d ever expect, say to me last month, ‘I’ve been buying clothes on eBay lately’. And that made me smile.

Now that I’ve made the pledge, I avoid the unhealthy temptation of sales racks rammed with cheaply made clothing that eventually ends up in the bin because the fabric is too worn out to pass on secondhand to someone else. Older clothes tend to be better constructed. Even my peacock-blue vintage number from the ball was repairable. The fabric remains as sturdy as in the 1950s, and the seams can be easily replaced with new thread; also, a quick dry clean will dispel the smell (I probably should have thought of that before wearing it to the ball). Luckily, there are great seamstresses and dry cleaners in Jersey who will sort all that out for me.

To me, not buying new clothing is common sense.

1. I don’t like wearing what everyone else is wearing.

2. I love a bargain. 3. There are enough garments in the world to clothe me (and probably the rest of the population) throughout my lifetime. But when I think of my pledge in the bigger context of the environmental crisis, I feel like a total fake. I’m a hypocrite. It’s impossible to live on the grid and not be a hypocrite. For me, buying new clothing is something I can live without that doesn’t feel like a sacrifice, so I’m not really giving anything up to help the environment. I’m simply being a little bit less lazy with my purchases. But maybe this is a first step to making bigger changes and bigger sacrifices (beyond the embarrassment of flashing my granny pants to 400 Scottish people). I look forward to finding out. 