Dear Consignment Stores,
I am not sure if you are aware of this, but you are NOT an upscale boutique on the lovely streets of Hollywood or even a trendy shop in Manhattan. Your odd painted sign that has to tell people you are an “Upscale boutique” shouldn’t be necessary if you actually were one. No… you are a shabby shop in a small town that sells used clothes. Are you aware of this? I am not sure you are… since the price tag on those worn jeans and odd-looking grandma shirts clearly was not for the average shopper.
I wandered into your shop today looking for something bright and colorful to cheer up the rainy day. Perhaps I would find a soft patterned scarf, a blouse to wear under my new fall sweater, or even an odd piece of jewelry that might have been lost in someone’s box and now would be just the unique thing I would wear. I looked through the window and spotted a couple interesting finds through the dusty glass before I wandered through the screen front door. The smell of aged leather mingled in with the light perfume of canned air freshener greeted me as the racks of denim pressed tightly together created a claustrophobic’s nightmare. I thought as I wandered through the dark little house transformed into a storefront that this might be fun to explore and seek out my treasure.
There were a few old sweaters that made me wonder if I hadn’t crossed the age requirement to shop there but there was still hope as I found two racks of beaded delights. Quickly I spotted a lightly strung beaded necklace and pulled it in for a closer look, but it was the price tag that caught my attention more than the sparkle.. $21.00. Well, perhaps that was a piece that was new? No, I searched the racks now only to find that none of the costume jewelry carried a label less than $20 for items I knew I had seen at Target last year for less than $15. Turning around I pulled the tag from a well-worn blouse closer and lifted my brow as the $65 tag confirmed that somehow I had no concept of how much money this shop seemed to feel their used clothes were actually worth. There were fuchsia sequined gowns for $500 and the scarves I had considered no less than $50.
Huh… what.. the hell?
Apparently however any interest I might have had in making a purchase had failed to get the attention of the sales woman who barely gave me a second look as she dusted the rows of old shoes that looked as if somewhere retired strippers had turned in their platform sparkled heels for something less tacky and they had been snatched up by the owner of this establishment. Oh well, I wouldn’t have known what to say to them if they had bothered to talk to me anyways. Growing up I was always taught that if you can’t say something nice, you shouldn’t say anything at all.
But it doesn’t mean you can’t blog about it later!