Thrift becomes fashion

My fashion intuition tells me that somewhere within the past decade it became acceptable to shop at thrift stores. It's like comparing an independent film to Hollywood and the way fashion is swaying, it's heading for that originality found in those dusty shops. When the millennium loomed upon us, fashion critics said that it would be the decade of "anything goes." I took it to mean that it would be the decade of ultimate postmodernism, where identifiable styles like '50s cardigans and '70s platforms from previous eras could be layered.

Ultimately we are still stuck in that "anything goes" mentality that encompassed the past decade. At times it's taken over the top and that generous, broad mentality of the eras makes the mixing of styles look like costumes. Thank God we're finally heading into a subtler style of hipster bohemian appeal.
It was great while it lasted, but now it seems that the youth of America are searching for originality not found in "the eras." The search is displaying itself as skinny jeans, square sunglasses, fedoras and airy floral prints. Old band T-shirts, vests and flat shoes of a minimalist style are now everywhere.
The lingering effect is that grunge laziness from the '90s, but with a more optimistic brilliance to it all.
Vintage, retro, or indie clothing are the fashion structures most likely to be found when you're shopping at thrift stores. If you mix these categories just right, you're heading in that distressed yet cute revival of androgynous vintage clothing style - another component of the new decade.
The fundamental idea is to get to that originality zone through thrift stores, hand-me-downs, dumpster diving and good old yard sales.
Thrift store shopping is a way to engage in consumerism without being a capitalist consumer, much to the benefit of being green. Feel good about yourself while you're on the journey to discovering what secondhand nature is all about.
For those of us who are thrift-conscious, rummaging Salvation Army stores and their ilk isn't pitiful, it's downright imbued with vogue. When I shop at Forever 21, I'm thinking that if I buy this vintage-looking cardigan sweater, I'm going to wonder who else has already bought it and that she stole my look.
But if I go to a thrift store, where I will most likely be contributing to a charity, I can find a '50s-ish sweater for maybe three-fourths the price than at a name brand store and I won't have to worry about someone wearing a replica.
Because thrift shopping is all about the hunt, soon you will go to thrift stores like a ravenous hyena in search of food.
Instead of going to Urban Outfitters where you'd pay an exorbitant price for T-shirts with old band logos on them or ripped-up jeans, why not just try the Salvation Army?
The cool factor comes into play because of the vicarious quality that comes with purchasing secondhand clothes. It engages my imagination to ponder who owned this grungy '80s rock concert T-shirt. I feel that, for whatever reason, he or she is getting rid of it and passing it down to me to take care of.
Isn't that what we love about fashion? We love to tell stories about the articles of clothing we're wearing because it helps establish our fashion sense. We like to tell where we found it, how much it cost, and we love the reverie that comes with narrating past memories of times we wore the second-hand garments - and that is the nature of the individualistic, romanticized free-spirit of the new bohemian.