I found the perfect thrifted blazer in Bushwick this weekend, and I have been insufferable about it ever since.
Twelve dollars. Oversized, boxy, this deep oxblood color that photographs like it costs three hundred. One shoulder pad slightly heroic, one button missing. I will fix the button. I will never fix the shoulder.
The shop is on Knickerbocker, a few blocks off the L, the kind of place that smells like old fabric and incense and possibility. I go almost every other week. In fashion, everyone talks about sustainability like it's a campaign. For me it's just the thrifted blazer in Bushwick that nobody else spotted.
Here's what I look for, since people always ask. Fabric first — I check the tags, I want wool, cotton, real fibers with weight. Then seams. Then I try the shoulders, because you cannot easily fix a shoulder that doesn't fit but you can hem, take in, swap buttons all day.
This blazer had good bones. You learn to feel it. My degree taught me construction; the L train taught me patience for digging.
Most of what's sold new right now is designed to fall apart in three washes. I've seen the factories in the deck presentations. I know what "trend-responsive supply chain" actually means. It means garbage, fast.
So I'd rather spend a Saturday in Bushwick pulling a perfect thrifted blazer out of a sad crowded rack than buy something new that'll pill by October.
My grandmother reused everything. Saris became petticoats became cleaning cloths. Nothing wasted. I used to find it embarrassing. Now I basically built a whole aesthetic on it and call it curation.
I wore the blazer to a meeting Monday. Three people asked where it was from. I said Bushwick, twelve dollars, and watched their faces do a little math.
Best twelve dollars I've spent all year, shoulder pad and all.
Love,