Fashion trends dictate that what’s hot right now is but part of the cyclical pattern of what was hot, say, twenty years ago. I’m seeing that right now as a proud member of the 90’s kids culture. You have artists like Childish Gambino’s shout-out to our generation’s beloved green and purple dinosaur not named Barney. A quick #normcore search on instagram pulls a gallery equal parts Big Pete, Blossom, and Easter Sundays between third and eighth grade.
It’s mostly because of this idea that I’ve yet to surrender my questionably stained Member’s Only jacket plucked from a Buffalo Exchange in Santa Barbara. It’s also partly sentimentality. But beware the danger of nostalgia burrowing deep into hoarder’s territory. You know that place: acceptance trifolds from colleges you maybe should’ve enrolled, the dried remains of a prom boutonniere, a fairly cheesy cream jacket that goes well with a Magnum PI stache. It would be nice to know the fine line between artifacts and junk.
Holding on to old items that may or may not fit a changing physique or style does have equal parts risk and reward. Take, for example, my gray wool flat-cap. I took a chance after noticing it at my sister’s Banana Republic outlet. It hung from a carabiner on steel-bike tours of San Diego pubs, concealed the dome for hat-hair weekends, and then, well, that was about it. It never paired well with my usual white tee and black jeans, so often in the closet it would sit, somewhere in a purgatory of half-folded shirts and questionable impulse buys. But once my sweat had stained on the band, a relationship was forged. Even when I purged a good most of my belongings before I moved to China, the cap made its way into the luggage.
Now that I’ve traded daily sneakers and denim for bluchers and cuffed trousers, my style has caught up with the ol’ chap, as if it was waiting for me to figure it out. On a particularly windy day I couldn’t find my beanie, there it was, sitting on the shelf, tipping itself in my direction. It has completed my daily suit, tasked with keeping hair in line whilst traipsing to work, assuring a gait of nonchalance. Look good, feel good, walk damn good. Through fall and winter the brim has finally started arching on its own, and I even got the hang of removing it without mussin’ up my hair. I walked out the door every morning, briefly living in a time when men routinely reached for a fedora on the way out, hovering over them with functional coolness during the commute.
That’s the charm of these old odds and ends taking up closet space. Speaking of the old, unremarkable, but damning handkerchief that Othello gifted to his sweet Desdemona, he professed “Tis true. There’s magic in the web of it.” There’s indeed a magic in rediscovering a years-old belt your wife gave you that has just recently knocked all your others out of the rotation. Or the dusty boots your uncle has forgotten that has found a fresh set of toes for new adventures. Some pieces are meant to last forever, and with that age comes a patience for you to come around to your senses and wear the hell out of it. That’s the magic of timeless style.
The steam and haze of Shenzhen spring has finally returned, so the cap has taken its old space on the shelf. But after a week without it, I find myself arriving to the office reaching for a brim that’s no longer perched above my brow. Back it’ll go into an empty suitcase labeled “fall/winter,” not before I find a good article on how to clean and store wool hats. I’m sentimental about a lot of my stuff, and I value nothing more than an old piece of clothing that’s forgiving enough to let me put it on once more.
