Breaking out of my anxiety-induced, social-barrier shell took me through a journey of self-discovery I hadn’t envisioned—specifically in relation to my style. I had no sense of personal taste or closet curation. At all. For years. A few semesters at Emerson and a well-needed dose of “city living” (as opposed to the Jersey suburbs type-living) helped me replace black sports leggings and graphic tees with skirts, multi-pocketed pants, overalls, and even the occasional assless chap. 

I credit much of my fashion sense to other people, as I think most of us should. If we aren’t designing it, we’re curating it—which, yes, deserves recognition. But as much as I’d like to take all the applause for caring about and acting on building my closet up to size, credit should be given where it’s due. 

I refer to the way I gather my sense of style as “outsourcing.” This could mean gaining basic ideas from media consumption (shout out my Instagram discover page and Tumblr for #OnesWhoRemember), literally stealing pieces I like from friends or family, or, the riskiest aspect of it all, approaching strangers in public spaces, complimenting them, then asking, “Where’d ya get that?” Let’s outline the pros and cons of this strategy and where it seems to veer me down a dark, sometimes awkward, and rather ugly path. 

About 80% of the time I work up the courage to actually approach someone about their outfit, they’re super responsive and sweet. We usually stumble into conversation about pieces we each have on, where we shop around Boston, and I’ll often bring up how much I hate online shopping—price wise and due to lack of knowledge on my own measurements. 

We’ll laugh it up, compliment each other one too many times, and part ways. I’ll leave the conversation with new places to shop and fashion inspiration, both things that make me feel warm and fuzzy inside for at least a couple hours after I part ways with my new fashionable stranger/friend. But this nice storybook moment-for-the-journal is only handed to me part of the time. My luck. 

It’s generous to say this happens with only 20% of my fashion outsourcing ventures because it’s definitely way more. But I try not to think about these kinds of run-ins too much: the ones where the person is either very obviously gatekeeping their pieces (cue phrases like “I don’t really remember,” or “it was so long ago,” and, the big kicker, “it’s high-end and really hard to find, also, suuuuper expensive”), or they ignore the question altogether. 

Although any of those answers seem like enough to make me never want to approach a stranger again, or even give up my sense of personal style, the worst response often comes after I ask where they got it. The answer rings: “SHEIN! It’s like, so easy and quick. They have everything. Have you shopped there before?”

Fast fashion is a topic I won’t spend much time crucifying—one, because it’s already been done. We know by now that brands like Zara and ROMWE each have their shitty aspects, especially in relation to environmental degradation and employment wage issues. Two, because Boston is a college city, with college students on college budgets, who shop online for accessible pricing and instant gratification. In all that understanding, I just can’t hide the facial reaction that follows when I find out a piece I was initially attracted to was made by an unethical company.

I also will not deny my possession of similarly questionable brands. However, I make absolutely no attempt to defend these brands when I’m asked where they’re from, and am actually pretty openly embarrassed about my Urban Outfitters patchwork school tote, for example, or secondhand Forever 21 velvet tie-up top. 

I’m also well aware that many of the aforementioned brands are often not the original creators of the aesthetics I’m attracted to. The cancellation of these brands comes in many forms, namely viral videos that call out the monster companies for producing knock-off vintage styles or stealing from small businesses. I guess it’s on me for being drawn to the Shein versions of Versace-esque zipper bustiers.

The bottom line is that outsourcing your wardrobe can either go oh-so-right or terribly, horribly wrong. Now, a bigger focus of mine is steering any red-flagged conversations into either a swift exit, or an actively anti-preachy conversation on how we can all, collectively, do better with our consumption choices. That, or Zara could shut down completely. We all have dreams, right?