Why My Son and I Are Thrifting Partners in Crime
“Halston, you’re a genius,” I purred in my best impression of Krysta Rodriguez doing her best impression of Liza Minelli as I surveyed myself in the mirror.
Having watched every second of Ryan Murphy’s silly but fun Halston Netflix mini-series, I was incredibly excited to find an unworn (“NWT” as they say) Halston dress in the 1970s rack at a Burbank vintage store. I knew I had to try it on.
The material looked like liquid silver and felt like scratchy polyester. It wasn’t easy to figure out to get it on, but with some patience, some assistance, and the discovery of a hidden side zipper, I was finally able to settle the maxi-length, spaghetti-strapped, asymmetrically-bodiced, shimmering goddess gown in place and get a sense of how it looked on me.
And I was thrilled. Honestly, I felt like Amy Adams in American Hustle, which was pretty good for a middle-aged woman whose only exercise is to walk to Starbucks. I wanted this dress. I wanted this life. I wanted to be Elsa Peretti, swanning around sans bra or shoes, accessorized with only a cigarette and a martini.
This dress made me feel gorgeous.
And then...I turned sideways. You know what doesn’t look good from the side? Bunched-up-elastic-waisted polyester dresses on post-menopausal women.
Oh, Halston, you’re not a genius.
I no longer felt like Amy Adams or Elsa Peretti. More like Mrs. Potts.
I turned to my dressing-room companion. “I’m too pudgy. It’ll look better on you.” I wiggled out of the dress, handed it over, helped with the zipper, then stepped back to get the full view. “I knew it,” I said. “You look better in it than I do.”
“Do I?” And then my son turned sideways. “Actually,” he said. “It looks weird from the side on me, too.”
To my surprise, he was right. Johnny is significantly taller and skinnier than me, but that elastic-ass waist still looked frumpy on him.
“Is it bad that I’m just a tiny bit pleased it’s not flattering on you either?” I asked.
“Nah,” he said kindly. “I get it.”
Over the years, my 27-year-old son has put together some killer outfits to host drag trivia nights in bars, where he holds court from the front of the room, his long, narrow face almost unrecognizable under the mascara, bold lips, and contour. As a trivia master, he’s funny, self-deprecating, just flirtatious enough—and surprisingly good at keeping track of everyone’s scores (take that, dubious middle school math teachers!).
I joined the game one night, and he took my breath away with his outfit: a pink fur hat with googly eyes, long black hair, a velour pink apron gown over a nude illusion netting top, a purse made out of a stuffed flamingo, and thick platforms with stiletto heels. He had taken some thrift and craft store finds and turned them into pure gold. (My own outfit that night was jeans and a sweatshirt. I did not win at trivia.)
Johnny also wears skirts or dresses to fancy events and job interviews, because why wouldn’t he? Sartorial gender norms are being tossed out the window, and celebrities from Lil Nas X to Jonathan Van Ness to Billy Porter are as likely to walk the red carpet in a fabulous dress as they are in a bespoke tuxedo.
While some people are thrilled to see Harry Styles in a dress on the cover of Vogue, there are others whose real-life response to seeing gender norms flouted is anger, fear, even violence. That doesn’t make me want to tell my son to stop wearing skirts. It makes me want to make the world a more humane place.
Subverting societal expectations should be a joyful adventure, and thankfully, so far, for Johnny, it has been. He has inherited my love of thrift stores—the thrill of the hunt, the hope that something unexpectedly valuable and perfect could be on the next rack, hidden behind all the crappy Forever 21 leopard prints, just waiting for someone with the patience and the drive to find it. The pieces of his drag outfits almost always start off on a thrift store rack.
My daughter Annie moved to Portland for college and has stayed there ever since, but when the three of us get together, we still head straight to a Goodwill. Other people hate the weird sweat/skin/detergent smell at thrift stores. I wouldn’t want to wear it like a perfume, but it smells like fun and family to me.
Once, a number of years ago, my daughter brought a friend to go thrifting with us. The two of them eventually got bored and sat down at the back of the store to chat. I was trying to decide if I liked a dress Johnny was holding up to his body, when a woman walked past us and stared. She approached my daughter and her friend.
“Don’t you think that’s disgusting?” she said, lowering her voice and gesturing at me and Johnny. Annie looked at her. “That’s my brother,” she said coldly, and the woman beat a hasty retreat. We all laughed about it later. It was funny, because we were safe and together.
But, given the world’s occasional intolerance, I admire Johnny’s willingness to take fashion chances. He didn’t get it from me. At the thrift store, I’ll show him something I like and he’ll say, “How is that different from everything else you already own?” The answer is it’s not and that’s why I like it.
He pushes me to try on stuff I would never have picked out for myself, and when I hesitate over something that I’m worried might be too bright or too youthful, he rolls his eyes. “Get it,” he says. “Who cares?” He encourages me to be more subversive, because why not? And I want to be subversive, for him, so I buy it and bring it home—and sometimes I wear it and sometimes I give it to him, since he almost always looks better in it.
The vintage store where we found the Halston was a lot more upscale than our usual thrift stores, but it still fit in with our “pay as little as possible for cool stuff” family motto. I mean, the Halston was a tiny fraction of its original 1970’s $560 price.
Even so, Johnny and I both ultimately decided against getting it—with only a tiny bit of regret (for that gorgeous front view) and a promise that we would come back for it if we changed our minds.
I did buy a beaded (and oddly comfortable) tank top from the ‘70s but Johnny would have gone home empty-handed if we hadn’t decided to hit a nearby Goodwill before heading home.
There, while flicking through a rack of decidedly uninspiring women’s dresses (the Gap really needs to slow its roll), I suddenly found the most gorgeous little 1950s-esque frock--silky turquoise fabric with black stitching, three-quarter length sleeves, a slightly curved boatneck, wide flared skirt—Total Mrs. Maisel vibes for only twelve bucks.
I raced over to Johnny at the other end of the store and thrust it at him. His face lit up. He got it, took it home that day, and later sent me a photo of him wearing it.
It looked fabulous. Even from the side.
Recently, Johnny invited me to join him and some friends at a “Labyrinth Ball” in August. We’ve already spent hours looking through our closets and trying things on together to see if any of our old thrift store finds can be repurposed. Years ago, he bought a full-skirted, cap-sleeved gown and dyed it a light, gossamer blue. He’ll probably wear that, over an enormous hoop petticoat. I have a strapless black dress with a fluffy feather skirt that makes me feel like a princess and I’ll probably wear that. Theoretically, we’re set. But that’s not going to stop us from continuing to comb every thrift store in the area for the next few weeks. That elusive perfect ballgown may still be out there.
Of course, if we find it, we’ll have to decide which one of us actually gets to wear it to the ball. Don’t tell Johnny, but I’m hoping it’ll be him.
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