In February of 2019 I walked into 9th Street Vintage in Manhattan, and was immediately struck by a vintage nightgown that was dyed a perfect baby pink. I was taken aback by them as my hand grazed the delicate fabric. I thought the only rational thing a girl like me would think at the time: this is so Carrie. I was about twenty miles deep into my fantasy, and then I saw the price tag. A big old three hundred doll hairs. Given that this was my first interaction with these beautiful things, I just assumed that that was the price of every vintage nightgown. And so, months went by of me desperately admiring them from afar.
Flashforward to the summer after my senior year of highschool. I was shopping at this vintage pop up in Montauk, put on by a sunkissed girl my own age (side note: I was ridden with jealousy that this girl wasn’t about to start her first year of college, rather galavanting around the country buying and selling clothes). And then it struck me again. The spell of a gorgeous 1930’s slip dress that was slightly green, with tiny little sleeves that flapped in the breeze. Once my rational thinking had come to the conclusion that I could wear it to an upcoming wedding, I dropped $375 on it, which I had earlier earned that summer (pictured below). I could not be more overjoyed as I walked out with a wide grin across my face, the slight ping of buyers remorse trying to climb to the forefront of my brain. I called my mother and she nearly slapped me through the phone when I told her how much money I spent. I felt like Ron Weasley getting that screaming letter from his mom. She told me I was insane to buy a vintage slip dress for that much when I could find one just like it for $40 at a flea market. Being the teen that I was, I casted her off, told her she didn’t understand, and this was from the THIRTIES. But, like all good motherly advice, it set up camp in the back of my head. When I got home from the wedding, my dress had torn in three places. I began to worry.
Halfway through freshman year of college I was wandering about the flea market outside my house. It had been there ever since I was a baby, and the TikTok crazies were on the brink of destroying it (sorry I’m a gatekeeper when I want to be). I found this little tent with vintage sleepwear galore, all under $40. My mother was right, as she always is. Here were the incredible gowns that she had promised. The next thing I know, I’m at a flea market in LA and I find another fairly priced seller. A newly enlightened shopper, I went on and on about how she is fairly pricing her clothes, how no one in New York does, and she could be charging so much more and dummies would buy them. Just what every vendor wants to hear, that she isn’t selling her clothes for enough. I soon began preaching to anyone that would listen. Never EVER buy a vintage slip for more than $40. It isn’t worth it. Ever heard of ebay? Or Etsy? Or other flea markets? Now whenever I see one for $150, let’s say at Stella Dallas, I scoff and move on.
What’s up with curated vintage stores? Why oh why do they have to be so damn expensive?I understand that its age and purposeful curation gives it the piece’s value, but not enough to bump up the price by $150. They should not be getting away with this. Where does our generation’s need to shop curated vintage come from? They are one of a kind, for sustainability purposes, blah blah blah. Lets face it, a big reason is because it’s trendy. Thirty year old women in Williamsburg are taking advantage of our Tik Tok ridden brains and jacking up the prices. I for one, will have none of it. So, this is me calling on all of you to stop it. Don’t buy that Hot Topic miniskirt from 2003 that costs $150 and don’t, for the love of god, buy that vintage slip for $375. Now, I only shop thrifted clothing or luxury designer, two forms of vintage that are rightfully priced. Nothing in between.
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