I went thrifting in Williamsburg on Thursday after work and found the dress.
You know the feeling if you've ever thrifted seriously. The moment your fingers hit a fabric on the rack and your whole body says stop. It was a 90s silk slip dress, bias cut, the color of chai after you've stirred the milk in. Twelve dollars. Twelve.
I took the L to Bedford Avenue, which is peak fashion-person cliché, I know. But the thrift stores off Metropolitan hold real treasure if you have patience and a strong back for digging.
Working in the fashion industry has completely rewired how I shop. I used to want everything shiny and new. Now the thought of a fresh polyester dress that'll pill after two washes makes me a little sad. Thrifting in Williamsburg isn't just cheaper — it's the whole philosophy I've come to believe in.
Here's what nobody in fast fashion wants you to know: the clothes already exist. Millions of beautiful, well-made garments are already out there, waiting on racks, in bins, in your mom's closet. That silk slip was made in a decade when things were built to last. The seams are French. The silk still has weight.
My grandmother's saris are the same. She has ones older than my mother, folded in tissue, still perfect. That's what real clothing is supposed to be. Something you keep. Something with a history.
When I thrift, I imagine the woman who wore the dress before me. Where did she go in it? Who did she love? Now it's mine, and one day it'll be someone else's, and that's the most romantic thing about clothes.
I'm restyling the slip for a shoot next month. Layering it over a white tee, some chunky boots, maybe my dadi's old gold jhumkas for contrast. Old and new. Ahmedabad and Brooklyn.
The fashion industry taught me to consume. Thrifting in Williamsburg taught me to curate.
Buy less, love harder, wear it till it falls apart.
Love,