Secondhand.

There, I said it. The word is almost a slur of its own nowadays. We are meant to call it something less triggering for the sake of a jumpier new generation, I suppose.

Sorry Karen, I meant “pre-loved”. I felt cheapened more by the modern terminology than I had ever felt by any used jacket. So much for a rose by any other name and the like.

The blouse was new. I had never even touched real silk before this blouse, which was beige and blue and two different shades of green. I gently pinched its hem, bracing myself for the moment it would fall apart. I inhaled sharply. My eyes widened a little. All the while the fabric stayed intact. Then I softly scrunched the sleeves, not even considering creases, and let out a squeak in excitement.

I looked around to find nobody had noticed, or really cared at all. So, I lifted the hem and blindly groped around for the laundry label (or whatever you call it). Not a stain or stretch in sight, and form-fitting. Even down to the cuffs. Gold and blue velvet buttons, with little embroidered letters in their centres.

Its original store price tag was still intact. A hundred euro, shamelessly marked down to three. I suppose if it were me . . . if I had been successfully rolling hoards of items out to shoppers on a weekly or daily basis, raking in top dollar for every boot, belt and badge, I might not be complaining all that much. And if I had enough disposable income in cloth form, crowding up my wardrobe, I might not be too ridden with guilt either, over dumping one hundred euro blouses into the charity shop bargain bin.

The bathroom behind me doubled as the only fitting room in the shop, and I made a twirled around running straight through the opened door. My grey cardigan and khaki green t-shirt flew over my head landing onto the chair in the corner. Visions of my next outing with the girls or some imaginary lecture I could attend already had me obsessing over what jeans or boots to pair with it. I rushed to loosen the buttons on the blouse, muttering to myself all the while, praying – please fit. Please, please let it fit.

I stared at myself for a long time in the mirror, starting with my feet then slowly raising my eyes towards the blouse which I delighted in, like I was Coco Chanel or Cinderella. The smile widened across my face and refused to leave. I twisted a little clockwise, then anti-clockwise. Twelve o’clock, nine, three, six, and then back to twelve. The victory dance of many female shoppers who strike gold.

Finally, the selfie – if it made me look twice my size or twice my age, then it was a reject. So out came the phone, camera at the ready, pose and click. I scanned the photo, scrunching my face a little in the process. With some relief, the photo was up to standard and I could leave the fitting room satisfied at last.

“There’s treasure to be troven for anyone willing to dig!” Gran’s voice was following me through the rails, past the cash register and down the stairs to the lower level of the shop.

The blouse clung around my fingers as if it had already made up its mind. It seemed to have inherited the clear conscience of its previous owner as it failed to give any thought for my own. I tried counting the tops that were already stuffing my bedroom dresser. Six of them were cobalt blue and featured some kind of lace around the neckline or back. They were mostly satin or cotton though – nothing resembling silk. Even the dread I might have felt about one day being buried beneath a great mountain of my own belongings like a compulsive collector, did not deter me from buying one more item or from sizing up the rest of the shop.

My eye soon caught the cluster of garments marked for a size sixteen and found myself fishing through them for some more inspiration. That was at least what I told myself. There was always the option to get something altered if I had really wanted any of it.

There was just so much of it though. Some of it had probably been sitting there for an eternity, the staff probably desperate to be rid of those “long-timers” as Gran called them. The dizzying collection of floral pattern buttoned shirts irritated soon me enough to start rearranging items.

Blouse and cardigan, shirt and jacket, cami vest and blazer. What if I volunteered here? I could bloody well do this all day and maybe even help sell double the items! Just because they are old does not mean that they do not deserve some respect just like any other garment.

How’s that for Shakespeare! I thought, pleased with myself until I heard someone behind me,

“Excuse me, Miss! You can’t do that.” The shop assistant nearly sprinted over to survey the damage.

“Oh bloody hell, I’m only after sorting these!”

The disappointment was hard to ignore. I was after giving her some ideas for improving her arrangement. I thought I had honestly done a good job too. People after all are very easily swayed by appearances. Surely old clothes, some of them which looked like bargain bin rejects from the 1960s, were no exception? I sighed thinking of it all while the shop assistant insisted on lecturing me about how to do her job.

“Right, Miss. I can see you’ve got plenty of ideas and you like mucking around with ’em, hm? But this ain’t the place to be doing it. You’ll only be makin’ trouble for me with my manager. So if you’re gonna buy somethin’ I suggest you go head then get going”.

I smiled despite the embarrassment which flared up in my cheeks, and holding up the blouse I replied,

“Just this, please”.