Loose-curled long blonde hair. Turquoise eyes, lake-sparkling. Twin images of a perfect size six. This was what I needed to achieve. Even if I couldn’t join the Unicorn Club described in the novels, I wanted to look like I could. Hot pink lip gloss was hastily applied by my eight-year old hands, and my child lips were frowning, my ungroomed brow furrowed. The eyes that looked back from my ornate mirror were not the colour of a fictional lake where teenagers ate the occasional hot dog, drove sports cars, broke hearts. My eyes needed to be a different colour, and, definitely, a different shape. I didn’t know if there were techniques to do that. The blue eyeshadow of my pretty princess makeup kit made me look cheap, my mom said, but I loved it, maybe even cried a little when she said no way could I wear it to the mall. I stained my tissue with the thick waxy mess of the play lipstick and eyeshadow, intoxicated by the smell of the makeup. It tended to linger on my lips even after they returned to their normal colour. I placed the tissue in my wastebasket with a sigh.

It was in grade seven that I got my first real makeup, though my friends and I had long traded brightly-coloured tubes of lip gloss. We weren’t allowed to wear anything else on our faces, but we could get away with thick layers of boysenberry-scented purple tints. Aside from stealing the occasional dab of cover-up from the makeup cases of our mothers, we hadn’t graduated to grown-up cosmetics yet.

In Junior High, it was different. This is where the books I had loved as a kid were set. The world seemed to be inhabited by Jessicas. Girls preened before brown-cased compacts, covering their noses in pressed powder. They dyed their hair blonde and lined their eyes with blue kohl. For my birthday, I received an eye makeup starter kit from one of my friends. In the clear plastic case was a black eyeliner pencil, a sharpener, and a pot of beige eyeshadow. Knowing myself to be neither a Jessica nor an Elizabeth, I wondered how to wear my gift. The goth girls at school lined their inner rims with black, and so, I decided, would I. After all, I liked loud, angry music and my black velour shirt. I rimmed my eyes in black, only on the lower lid, because I thought that was how it was done. My fat had only expanded, and was not, I now realized, baby fat. This was to be my real woman shape. I placed myself in exile before anyone else could, and carried soda-flavoured lip gloss in one pocket. Just because you were a twelve year-old goth didn’t mean you’d never need a jolt of sugar and confidence.

The next year, I wanted to wear red lipstick like Courtney Love. I bought a $1 tube and applied it carefully. I liked the process, the fullness, but the red was far too declarative. I wiped it off with a tissue, threw it in my wastebasket. I tried this every day, hoping that one day it would just work. My mom would tell me I looked like my grandmother in the fifties. It wasn’t until I was twenty-five that this became a desirable comment. At fourteen, I just wanted to be a riot grrl, feeling the frustration of being a few years too late and almost definitely too young. I wrote nonsensical angry poems, stained my fingers with blue ballpoint scratches. I read biographies of grunge bands that were newly irrelevant. I wore baby barrettes in my short hair, band shirts in size XL. I started going to punk shows. I loved the anger, heat, and energy of the bands, comprised of kids only a few years older than myself. Everyone was shouting along and shoving each other with kinetic love. I didn’t need childhood or teenage Jessica Wakefield when I had this, even though I’d long outgrown those books. Fuck the Unicorn Club.

Exactly ten years went by at breakneck pace, and found me with my legs foamed up with fake-strawberry-scented shaving cream. I felt ridiculous, doing this for the first time since I was sixteen. My high school years had seen me in a sort of punk-inspired earth mother phase: no makeup, long skirts, hoodies covered with band patches and safety pins, hairy legs. When I got tired of that, my first two years of college consisted of v-neck sweaters, ties, black jeans, black eyeliner. As a result, I met a self-declared mod who mistook me for one of his kind. Our courtship was fevered, passionate, filled with bad poetry. I got engaged to him and dropped out of college. He controlled our finances, and, in turn, what I wore. I decided this was traditional and not untoward. From ages twenty to twenty-three, I wore plus-size mod dresses. It didn’t seem to matter to him that I didn’t like The Who and didn’t shave my legs. They’re not that hairy, he’d say, handing me white stockings and a thick headband.

When other issues arose, I began to realize that his control and manipulation extended well beyond my wardrobe. The more I fought it, the more we fought. He called the engagement off. After years of having been told I could never be without him, I moved across the country to learn how to be alone. Now, I was living in the hotel where I worked. I was better off. I shaved my legs once a week. I was utterly heartbroken.

Women’s magazines became my survival guide. I bought organic day cream, pressed it into my under-eye skin in soft little circles every night because the articles told me it was never too early. I wore soda-flavoured lipgloss over nude lipstick because, I figured, it was never too late. I frequented the used clothing store down the block, where I bought band T-shirts in size XL and old Sweet Valley books. I laughed at the teenage self-absorption of my childhood hero while taking lessons from her seemingly unending confidence. I was consciously regressing, even though I knew that, somehow, this was part of learning how to be an adult, to be alone, to be myself.

When I had first moved into the hotel, I couldn’t sleep. I realized that I was no longer used to sleeping alone. I piled up clothes and books on my queen bed and slept next to them so that it didn’t feel empty. I was still too heartbroken to feel embarrassed by this. Looking back, I cringe and laugh.

My job switched me to the back shift, so every day I went to sleep shouldering the orange-pink sunrise, aglow with the colours of my childhood lipstick. Resting on the bed beside me were piles of thrift-store plaid shirts and colourful scarves that I had gotten on sale. Every morning, the sun traced its arc through my window. The clothes, all mine, absorbed my dreaming.

Tiffany Morris is an emerging Mi’kmaq writer from Nova Scotia. Currently pursuing her BA in English, her research interests include postcolonial literary theory, modern Canadian poetry, and the Victorian spiritual crisis. She has been previously published with Yellow Medicine Review, Red River Review, and Red Claw Press, among others.

photo © Ernst Haas. New York City, circa 1950s.

When I was in elementary school, they gave us red “Just Say No To Drugs” shirts and told us to wear them to school the coming Friday. I was ecstatic. The t-shirt was large on my skinny frame and before I even got home I was planning what to wear with it. White jean shorts and two pairs of scrunch-socks (red & white) with my white Keds. A red bow in my hair. All I could think about in the days before Friday was that red t-shirt, hanging in my closet. It whispered to me. It told me stories and I listened, wide-eyed and sweating with anticipation. A red t-shirt, stiff and new and cheap, made my knees quake with desire. Because it was desire. I had given that t-shirt some sort of power — power over me and an anticipated power over anyone who saw me wearing it. I needed that t-shirt, so much so that I wore it to bed on Thursday night. I wanted to wake up wearing it.

I wet the bed that night. I woke up in a puddle of my own piss and cried great big crocodile tears. I tip-toed into my parents bedroom and tried to wake my mother, but she just mumbled something and rolled over. I was on my own. The red shirt stuck to my chest, sodden with urine, as I walked into the bathroom. I stripped it off and tried to wash it in the sink, unaware of the complexities of laundry and soap. I wrung it out and carried it, dripping, down the hall to my bedroom. I knew, in my six-year-old mind, that it would never dry in time to go to school. So I draped the red shirt across my bedside lamp, hoping that the heat would help dry it. My room fell into a red-hued otherness and I spread bath-towels over the piss-puddle and tried to sleep. The smell of the heating urine hung like a pall and I don’t remember if I ever did fall asleep.

I don’t know if I wore that shirt, stinking of piss, to school. Probably not, because my mother was vigilant and properly anti-stinkiness. If I didn’t wear it, then I am sure I was sunk into a deep depression until at least lunch-time, certain that my life was over because of a piece of clothing. I have always imbued my sartorial choices with heavy burdens of self & identity. Poor things, it must be exhausting.

I started The Blind Hem because of this acknowledgement that clothing is important. And the response has told me that I am not alone in this. The contributions have been wonderful and I cannot begin to express my gratitude for all of you who have sent work in, allowed us to re-publish and commented on this little endeavor of mine. I work a full time job and try my hand at this editing business on the side, and it is hard work. But it has been fun and, hopefully, will continue to be so.

Right now, at this point, The Blind Hem is going to make a few changes. We are cutting our content back to four posts a month. This is because I am beginning to become burnt-out — and it’s not feeling so fun anymore. And I don’t want that to happen, I don’t want to become so stressed that I make some hasty decision and shutter TBH completely. But, due to a slow-down in contributions, I cannot allow the content to lessen in quality. So here we are — scaling back, but not stopping.

Please continue to send in any and all contributions — they are welcomed with open arms! I am also going to be updating the The Blind Hem Tumblr with fun things, so definitely check that out too. New content will go live on the 1st, 10th, 20th and last day of every month at 4:00 PM CST.

We will see how this goes. Maybe I can find the fun again. Maybe you can help.

Much love, as always,

Katy

photo © {link:http://www.flickr.com/photos/zephyrance/4497418790/in/pool-1809958@N24/}Zephyrance Lou{/link} via The Blind Hem Flickr Group

These are songs that get me riled up, songs that get me snapping and tapping and Vogue-in front of my mirror while my boyfriend looks on in amusement. I’m the kind of person who tries on at least 45 different combinations before I’m set to leave: dresses with belts, skirts with boots, no the red mini with the white cowboy boots and the black batwing top, NO maybe this striped 70s sundress with a cream-colored cardigan over it? Or maybe just jeans with flats and red lipstick? It’s bad. I’ve always been this way. But my sense of self-confidence is inherently tied to my clothing; I’ll never feel really comfortable when I’m out unless I feel great in the outfit I’ve chosen. And what better to inspire some assurance than this playlist of crazy-confident female singers, singing about putting the love on top and their hands in the air? Turn it up, and sing along. Loud.

Getting it Dressed, Girl playlist on Spotify

Getting it Dressed, Girl playlist on Spotify

Carrie Murphy is a poet and freelance writer. She’s the author of Pretty Tilt (Keyhole Press, 2012) and she blogs about food at Plums in the Icebox. Follow her on twitter @carriemurph.

Sometimes you come across a person and their life-force takes your breath away. Maybe it’s someone you met last weekend, or maybe it’s someone you stumbled across in a history book. Or maybe they were always there, popping up in books and movies and on the internet, and it wasn’t until you really looked that you realized how incredible they really were. This is me and Josephine Baker. There she was, on all of the “vintage style” blogs I followed over the years, with her oil-slick bob and endless legs. That ubiquitous banana skirt protruding from her slim hips. As a passionate lover of all things 1920s and especially all things 1920s Paris, I loved her. I loved her look and her joie de vivre — but it wasn’t until I read Charles Glass’ Americans in Paris: Life and Death Under Nazi Occupation last year (highly, highly recommend it) and then began to look more into her life that I fully realized what a courageous, inimitable and eternally optimistic heroic figure Baker was.

Born to hardscrabble circumstances in St. Louis, Baker famously found herself first in Harlem, dancing at the Cotton Club, and then at the Folies Bergère in Paris. She took Paris by storm — they were captivated by what they found to be exotic, this black American nymph with boundless energy and incredible athleticism. But, though they may have come to her as supplicants to her otherness, they remained steadfast fans because of her strength of spirit and cheerful love of her adopted country. She remained in Paris under Nazi occupation, working with the Free French forces and the French Resistance. In her life, she was awarded the Croix de guerre, the Rosette de la Résistance, and was made a Chevalier of the Légion d’honneur by General Charles de Gaulle.

The above video is a fantastic documentary, made in the 1980s about a decade after her death, available on Youtube. It is over an hour long, but well worth the watch for incredible footage of Josephine Baker dancing her famed Banana Dance and interviews with those who knew her.

With the upcoming release of the newest adaptation of The Great Gatsby, 1920s style is having a bit of a resurgence (has it ever really gone away?). What better time to channel Josephine Baker, flapper darling and cheerful hero? Silks and feathers and t-bar shoes, banana-print fabrics and cloche hats. Long ropes of rhinestones or pearls, cheetah print and bias-cut gowns.

white crop halter top, Topshop $48 // Prada Spring 2011 banana skirt // mary janes, Nine West $99 // art deco earrings, Miss Selfridge $22 // feather evening bag, Reece Hudson $895 // vintage 1950s sequin cloche hat, $48 // mermaid’s dream, Deborah Lippman $18 // ruby woo, MAC $14

• Use iron-on transfer printer paper to transfer the banana image to fabric (we chose to iron the image onto light colored fabric to use as appliqués, but you can buy dark fabric transfer paper to go directly on the skirt).
• Pin the appliqués to the skirt.
• Sew on, by hand or by machine.

Katy Jones is the Editor of The Blind Hem. She is a fashion-school dropout with a Creative Writing BA from the University of Houston. You can find her at www.katylouisejones.com, she blogs at Dirty Hems, sells vintage clothing at Moonshine Hill and is usually spilling her guts on twitter. She lives in Texas.

In my pre-teen years, magazines for young girls were in scant supply, and the dotcom boom was well and truly yet to take off. When I was a tween, you had a handful of options: Smash Hits for TV/Movie/Music news, Dolly Magazine, or Girlfriend Magazine. I was 10, and after my favourite arts and crafts magazine folded, I landed my hands on a copy of Dolly Magazine, Australia’s favourite tween-age glossy for the discerning pop tartlet. According to its publisher it is “the single most trusted source of information for teenager girls.”

Maybe it had Dawson’s Creek on the cover. Or a Zach Hanson centre fold to add to my ever growing shrine of boy band paraphernalia. Dolly Magazine, as you can probably guess from the featured celebrities splashed across the cover that caught my pre-pubescent eye, is the Australian equivalent of America’s beloved Seventeen or Teen Vogue. They were a girl’s pop-culture bible, and the ultimate go-to for any young fangirl wanting to read about boys, fashion, health, tv, movies, music, not to mention the ever popular sealed-section. I wasn’t even a teenager yet, but boy did I want to be one. Whilst I couldn’t speed up my body clock, I could enter “girl world” through these portals of pop culture.

Every month when the new issue of these magazines would come out, I would treat them as gospel, seemingly preached from a heavenly host of older, stylish, smarter, popular ethereal beings who sat somewhere within their glamourous inner Sydney city offices. I learnt much, and I learnt fast, unconsciously programming myself to fit within the quintessential target demographic of 12-18. Obviously, age is a large part of this requirement, but a keen interest in boys, fashion, makeup and celebrity culture counts for a lot too. I’d always been friends with boys, and having an older brother meant I was often in the company of the opposite sex. Magazines taught me that not only should I care about the opposite sex, I should also care about what they thought about me. I should care right down to the hair on my head, the clothes on my body, the makeup on my face and the fat beneath my flesh. Was I charismatic? Was I pretty enough? Did I have an adequate gaggle of girly friends that would, by extension, render me part of the “in crowd”? I found myself pushing and pulling, stretching and altering my appearance and attitude. Young Camilla felt desperately inadequate, attempting to remedy any personality flaws with the help of these magazines like they were commandments written in stone.

Was I happy beforehand? Quite possibly. What child from your generic middle-class family home isn’t? But suddenly happiness became unattainable. The most important thing I learnt from these glossy periodicals is that, not only should I care about fashion, about boys, about the zits on my chin and the amount of boobage in my bra, but that because I was a girl I should care. My vagina was my downfall, a physiological trait that rendered me a consumer of the highest order. I couldn’t help it. I was a girl. I was made this way. I would always want, want, want, because there was a never ending list of things out of my reach. What was fashionable was always changing, leading young girls everywhere round and round like a dog chasing its tail (except dogs have more luck in this venture).

It wasn’t until probably two years ago, when I started studying journalism, that I learnt of the media’s power and the manufacturing of desire. I learnt that I’d been duped. I was but a mere pawn in a system that is designed to make money from making girls feel bad about themselves. I’m proud of the fact that I don’t feel that a bottle of perfume will enhance my quality of life, or that the key to success lies in a pair of shoes, a dress, or an expensive hair cut. I trip up from time to time, as my credit card debt will testify. My media consumption’s changed, not just with age (and a brief graduation from Dolly and Girlfriend to Cosmopolitan and Cleo), but also with the times. Tumblr and the fashion blog, over costly magazines, are now de rigueur for the conscientious female. Of course, these can also be harmful too, as I’ve written about previously.

I think these magazines still enjoy a good sized readership. Thankfully, some of them have jumped on board the positive body image brigade, with Australian journalists like Mia Freedman leading the pack with the National Body Advisory Group. Their most notable achievement is the Industry Code of Conduct on Body Image. It’s non-compulsory set of guidelines for media outlets, which lists things such as the need to portray a healthier weight, a diverse range of girls, fair placement of advertising material, etc. You can check it out here if you’re interested.

This year I made a pledge to only consume media that will enrich my intellect and give me a positive outlook on life. I adore Gala Darling, Wellness WA (whom I occasionally blog for), Charade Style, Jetta Vegas, and loads more which you can find in the links tab on my blog. What I want to know is, what magazines/blogs do you read? I’m always interested in finding new blogs and for overloading my feed.

This post was originally published on the author’s blog

You can see more of Camilla Peffer’s work at www.camillapeffer.com.au

Photo © {link:http://www.flickr.com/photos/mayafialagrauu/6352705596/in/pool-1809958@N24/}Maya Fiala Grau{/link}

The basement assembly room bristled with folding chairs. Couples arrived early. Ladies smoothed fleece cardigans over ample chests and chatted with hushed reverence.

-How exciting!

-A best-selling author!

Their husbands’ voices: gruff and self-congratulatory.

-We made him what he is, you know.

-Knew him when…

Mrs. Palmer, the high school guidance counsellor, raised an eyebrow toward Mme. Maxwell, the French teacher.

-Such a fine novel.

-He turned out well, didn’t he?

-A little wild, but just enough to be charming.

A tired-faced man in a stained, ragged parka stood at the back of the room. Hair, clothing, aura: gray. He clutched at a ball of toque and mitts, his hands kneading the bundle as if to warm themselves. Late arrivals looking for seats glanced at him and gave him a wide berth.

Nearly every chair in the room was full.

A university student from the city leaned closer to his yawning friend.

-Did you read it? I thought it was…okay.

His friend shook his head and checked his watch.

-How much extra credit do we get for this?

-Ten percent if you write a report. I’m submitting my write-up to the newspaper, too.

They leaned back with crossed arms. One checked his watch.

Mrs. Jackson crossed the small stage to the microphone. She stood smiling until the authority of her best navy suit dulled the hum of the crowd.

-What an honour to introduce this evening’s guest—but of course he’s not really a guest.

She paused for the audience’s chuckle, a warm caress.

-Twenty years ago, I didn’t often see him in this library. He was very busy, with sports and the student council. Since he left, he’s been busy too.

She adjusted her glasses and read the biography from the book’s dust jacket, including the awards, then looked back out at the crowd.

-He’s very good to grace our little assembly room with his talent this evening. And now, to read from his novel Iceberg and take some questions, it gives me such pleasure to introduce our very own—Wade Thompson!

Applause: meaty slaps of palm against palm. A tall man, broad-shouldered in a tight-fitting deep green turtleneck and black jeans, strode from the side of the stage to the microphone, unruly salt-and-pepper hair bouncing. He grinned, a white slash in a tanned face.

-Thank you! So kind. Thank you. Before I get too far this evening, let me introduce my wife, Melanie.

He swept his arm toward the front row, his hand spread open. He waited. His smile froze. The pause grew nearly awkward before a woman stood briefly and half-turned toward the audience.

The gray man in the back stood on tiptoe.

She wore black from wrist to wrist and chin to toe, turtleneck tucked into slim slacks tucked into high-heeled boots. Peered from behind a curtain of dark hair, she nodded, a flash of plum lipstick on flawless pale skin, and sat again without smiling.

Two ladies halfway back murmured.

-So elegant.

-A little young for him, surely.

-Well, he was a rascal. But charming.

-Mmmm, that smile. Yes.

The gray man in the back stood motionless.

Wade talked smoothly, without notes. He spoke for more than fifteen minutes about those numinous moments that define your life, when you must summon more courage than you think you have, when you absolutely must take action, even if the action seems futile, because simply by acting, you succeed.

The gray man held tightly to his bundle. The audience didn’t move, didn’t jiggle a booted foot at the end of a crossed leg, didn’t clear a throat or wipe a nose, not even during the pause while Wade picked up his book and found his place.

He read. It was a scene late in the book but early in the story, set one October morning at the waterfall five miles outside town. Two ten-year-old boys had lugged a burlap sack to the top of the waterfall. One boy extracted a mewling kitten and dropped it just where the current would carry it swiftly over the edge and down the twenty feet into the deep chill pool below.

The boys had done this before.

The first boy had pulled out another kitten when two younger boys, only eight, appeared with sticks. Undersized but undaunted, they beat and shamed the bullies and rescued the kittens.

When he had finished reading, Wade stood staring at the page for several seconds before relaxing.

The applause shattered the silence in the room.

The gray man inhaled deeply. He wiped his hands on his bundle—first his left palm, then his right.

After the applause, Mrs. Jackson asked an easy question.

-What do you miss the most about us?

Wade smiled; his voice leaned to wistful.

-Oh, lots of things—breakfast at The Greek’s, lunch at The Coney Islander.

He paused to receive another chuckle before turning serious.

-Really, I miss…community. That sense of responsibility for each other. You lose that, in a city.

Mme. Maxwell demanded recognition.

-Could you be the writer you are if you had grown up elsewhere?

-Of course writers grow up everywhere, but my experiences certainly influenced my subject matter.

The university student stood, already pleased with the question he was about to ask.

-Why is the bully never the main character of a story? It’s always the other one, the hero.

Several in the audience laughed. Wade smiled and started an answer, but the gray man threw a thundering question from the back of the room.

-Which boy were you, Wade?

The people near the back turned to stare, eyebrows drawn together. Others craned their necks to catch a glimpse of the questioner.

The gray man raised his voice.

-You were there.

People turned to each other.

-What?

-Who is he?

Wade blinked. The university student, wide-eyed, looked from Wade to the man in back, who was now shouting.

-It was at Amethyst Falls…c’mon, Wade, tell us. Which boy were you?

He grew larger—taller, more confident—as the buzz from the crowd grew. Mrs. Palmer turned to Mme. Maxwell and spoke in a normal voice.

-It really did happen, or something like it. I heard about it at school. A girl..and a dog, was it?

-He was in some trouble after graduation, was he not? I seem to remember hearing…

-A fight. At a dance. I wonder…

-Well, his father always…he seemed….

-There was that talk about the mother. Black eyes.

-Long ago, surely? People outgrow things.

Mme. Maxwell shrugged and fell silent. Mrs. Palmer looked at Melanie, curled in her chair, a slim black question mark.

Wade’s unconcerned face and steady voice quieted the audience to whispers.

-Any other questions?

The man at the back shouted again, his voice rough.

-I know you were there, Wade. I was, too. You tied their legs together. Singed their tails. They screamed…screamed. I held the bag and you threw the first kitten over. You laughed.

The man closed his eyes but kept talking into the silence around him.

-No one stopped us. There were no heroes, no other boys to rescue the kittens. No one.

The audience buzz began again, grew to cover his sobs.

Mrs. Palmer leaned toward Melanie. Her voice was soft, her eyes serious but kind.

-Did Wade…does he…

Melanie looked at Mrs. Palmer for a long moment. Then Mrs. Palmer wasn’t sure what she’d said, what she meant.

-It didn’t end with the kittens.

Or perhaps Melanie didn’t say anything at all.

Songbirds. from theblindhem on 8tracks.

Summer is around the corner, and with it comes long days in the sun. Around here, we pack our bags and head down the open road as much as possible — camping weekends and river trips, weekends spent with bare feet and tangled hair. My iPod has playlists devoted to these getaways, full of lilting vocalists and fiddles wailing in the background. As I shimmy into a bathing-suit and pull my hair back into a braid, I set the iPod on the camp sink or the hood of my car. It could be early morning, the sound of cicadas mixing with the melodies. Or it could be late afternoon, and I am changing into clean and dry clothing after a long day of doing absolutely nothing. I am about to head out this weekend on the first of these sorts of trips of the season, to the Guadalupe River in the Texas Hill Country. And it’s all I can think about, and, therefore, these are the only songs I want to listen to.

Katy Jones is the Editor of The Blind Hem. She is a fashion-school dropout with a Creative Writing BA from the University of Houston. You can find her at www.katylouisejones.com, she blogs at Dirty Hems, sells vintage clothing at Moonshine Hill and is usually spilling her guts on twitter. She lives in Texas.

In this new series, we follow blogger Terri Lowry as she makes her way through a year-long project exploring the various levels of retail in America. Each month we will feature a post from her window-shopping project and hope that it will encourage discourse! You can see January’s post, on dollar stores, here, February’s post on Walmart, here and March’s post on Old Navy, here.

photo © Forever 21.

I first visited a Forever 21 store roughly a decade ago, at the insistence of my two youngest daughters. I had never heard of the store, but they were insistent, even though it meant a drive of 40 miles to shop the one store that was open in the KC metro area at that time. We all three walked out with purchases. I bought a pencil skirt and a long scooped neck grey tee. I wore those items once.

Since that time, five local stores have opened — a sign of how the “fast fashion” concept has grown. The clothing is based on the most recent fashion trends presented at Fashion Week in both the spring and autumn of every year. It uses the Quick Response (QR) method to improve manufacturing processes in the textile industry with the aim of removing time from the production system. The method was introduced in the early 1980s by the US Apparel Manufacturing Association to address a competitive threat to its own textile manufactures from imported textiles in low labour cost countries.

The concept of QR is now used to support “fast fashion,” which creates new and fresh products that draw a consumer back for consecutive visits. While traditional fashion seasons follow the cycle of summer, autumn, winter and spring, fast fashion cycles have compressed in shorter periods of 4-6 weeks. Consumers of fast fashion thrive on trends, and fast fashion is considered to be the “supermarket” within the fashion industry. Cost is the consumer’s primary buying decision.

Proponents of fast fashion would argue that bringing high fashion down to affordable levels democratizes fashion, though a 2008 New York Times story asserted that only 10% of American consumers are hyper aware of designers. Some argue that it has spread the recognition of designers, though a number of them have brought suit against retailers like F21 for alleged violation of Intellectual Property rights. In a 2011 Business Week article Scafidi, a copyright law expert, asserted that “Of the various fast fashion chains, Forever 21 is the one who treats liability as a cost of doing business.”

Opponents of fast fashion argue that clothing of this quality contributes to textile waste, and in 2007 the documentary, Made in LA, detailed a lawsuit brought by 19 garment workers who had been contracted to produce garments for Forever 21. Julie Su was the lead attorney in the case against the company. While F21 claimed that it wasn’t responsible for conditions in factories where their clothing is produced, their business model creates and demands conditions that squeeze suppliers to get things done as quickly and cheaply as possible, without regard for workers. F21 settled out of court.

Today, because of changes in a trade agreement restricting garment exports from developing countries which expired in 2005, only 20-30 percent of F21 clothing is produced in LA. Much of its manufacturing has moved to China, Pakistan, and Vietnam. In one such factory, Susan Berfield reported that workers sewing grey cotton vests for F21 were finishing up a 10,000 piece order — for which the seamstresses earned about 12 cents each.

I was surprised to learn that the chain was originally intended at first for middle-aged women! It was founded in 1984 by Korean businessman Do Won Change and his wife Jin Sook Chang. The original store, sized at 900 square feet, is still in operation in the Highland Park district of Los Angeles. Today, it has 480+ locations worldwide in the UK & Ireland, Belgium, Austria, France, Bahrain, Hong Kong, India, Indonesia, Japan, Malaysia, Philippines, Saudi Arabia, Singapore, South Korea, Thailand, UAE, Puerto Rico and Costa Rica. Their largest store, in Modesto, California, covers 154,000 square feet over three levels. The company employs 35,000 and had a profit of $135 million in 2008.

The Changs are an American success story. From their humble beginnings delivering coffee and dressing hair in Seoul, they moved to LA and worked menial jobs until they opened their first store with items produced by Korean-American manufacturers. Jin Sook Chang proved to have a sharp eye for trends and negotiation, and remains the head buyer for the company. The Changs are born again Christians. If I had made a purchase last Sunday, I might have walked out with a shopping bag referencing John 3:16.

As I shopped, loud music set the pace. I found many items had slipped off their hangers, though there were quite a few young male employees who seemed to tend to this. I loved the gallery of accessories, but found that the layout of the store was disorienting. No sooner had I thought that I’d visited every display, I would turn around and discover a section I had seemingly overlooked. The one item I thought I might purchase, a $4.95 bandeau, was such a popular item that I couldn’t get close to the display. There was a long line to pay. And just as on my last visit with my daughters last year, there was a guy nearby ostensibly hanging up stock, but personally I’m convinced he was there to say flattering things about the items shoppers about to purchase.

Much as I am attracted to some of the items I saw, and the prices that are competitive to thrift store prices, the impulse to buy was similar to the feeling I had as a kindergartner in a candy store with a nickel in my sweaty hand. Let’s say I bought cotton candy with it — it dissolves in the mouth and leaves your hands sticky. And that was my experience with the two items I purchased a decade ago — they disintegrated in the wash. Only rarely do I come across F21 items in thrift stores.

If I were a teenager shopping with my first paychecks, I would likely shop this store, but as a middle-aged consumer who may be a cheapskate, I look for items that last. Has your experience with F21 been better than mine?

This post was originally published on the blog Rags Against The Machine.

Terri Lowry teaches English composition, literature and creative writing at a community college in the Midwest. She is a published novelist, short story writer, poet and journalist. She is the mother of 3 biological daughters (all grown), 5 steps, and has 8 grandchildren. She’s been blogging at Rags against the Machine since July 2010.

From a 1940s Butterick pattern.

My name is Jenny. I am a wife, mother, flight attendant and “modest” fashion blogger. I am writing in response to the article “And So Modest!” by Katy Jones, published here on The Blind Hem. If you haven’t read it I definitely recommend it, because it was well-written, interesting and thought provoking. Katy was wondering how a fashion blog could be considered modest, so I am here to explain my personal point of view.

Let’s start with the definition of modesty that was mentioned in the article. The word definitely means different things to different people, but the Merriam Webster online dictionary defines modesty as:

1. Freedom from conceit or vanity
2. Propriety in dress, speech or conduct

I want to explain that modesty is not simply covering your body. Not only do I choose to be modest in dress (to my own personal standards), but you will also notice that my blog is free from what I consider to be bad language or inappropriate behavior.

Let’s address the conceit and vanity issue. One of Katy’s main points was the following:

“By authoring a style blog, bloggers are placing themselves in the public eye — they are watched, dissected and lusted after.”

Am I vain for posting pictures of myself in outfits? Personally, I would say no. I don’t feel like I am showing off in any way. I don’t look like Barbie…I’m not a size 2 with blonde hair, blue eyes and the perfect complexion (no offense to those who look like this, you are lucky!). I simply like clothes and want to show people that you don’t need to show a bunch of skin and cleavage to achieve many of the current trends. To me, modesty is about a woman’s self-respect. Even before I was religious I didn’t want to dress in a way that would make people see me solely for my body. I would prefer to be appreciated for my personality and talents.

I may be drawing attention to myself by making my blog available to the public, but not in a “look at me” kind of way. My main goal of blogging, which is the same for most bloggers, is to inspire others in some way. People may be watching and dissecting what I post on the internet, but I am pretty sure no one is lusting after me. Who knows? But that is not my goal or intention.

Another point brought up by Katy was this:

“Plenty of style blogs showcase women who dress in ways very similar to the modest style bloggers. But it is the religion that prompts these women to brand their blogs with the “modest” label.”

Yes, I write a “modest” fashion blog, Modern Modest Beauty. I even have the word modest in the title! Why do I classify it as a “modest” fashion blog? The same reason why someone who blogs about gluten-free baking refers to their blog as a “gluten-free” baking blog. Do they think they are somehow superior to those who don’t bake gluten-free? Probably not. That is simply the specific type of baking they are interested in and choose to share with others. The same is true with modest fashion blogs.

The other thing that should be taken into consideration, is accessibility. If someone is looking for advice or information on “modest fashion”, that is exactly what they will type into a search engine. This is one of the biggest reasons why I chose to include the word “modest” in my title. I do blog about other topics, such as my travels or recipes, but the main focus of my blog is how to dress modestly.

One of my favorite things about blogging is learning more about my blog readers and realizing they all come from different faiths, races, backgrounds, etc. I truly do believe there are women interested in modest fashion that are not religious. Some may feel uncomfortable wearing short shorts or maybe they like to keep a professional look at the office. Other women might want to show people what is on the inside, not just their outer physical beauty. I don’t know all of the reasons, but there is a demand for modest fashion that has grown in recent years. I love blogging because of the huge variety in the “blogosphere” (I hate that word too Katy!). I am introduced to so many people and ideas that I never would have found without blogs.

I am a very open-minded person and respect everyone, regardless of their beliefs or values. I would never consider myself a person with a “holier-than-thou” attitude. I have witnessed some blogs that seem to give off that vibe. However, you can’t just make generalizations saying that all modest fashion bloggers think they are better than everyone else, just because of the values they choose to live.

Thank you Katy for bringing up this issue and I hope that my response can help others understand why “modest” fashion bloggers do what they do!

Jenny W is a wife and mother of two children. She is also a flight attendant and loves to travel! She blogs at Modern Modest Beauty.

Keeping up with the desires in my own head is hard enough, but being a part of the slew of popular social networking sites and applications out there suddenly adds a whole new set of issues to grapple with. I tumblr, I tweet, I pinterest and facebook, pose, stylecast and instagram. I read fashion blogs and add all my favorite brands to the sites I frequent, in order to keep me updated on what they’re doing, what latest “must-have” I should look out for and, subsequently, covet. Within the context of a day, I will be fed 100 photos from Bergdorf Goodman on Twitter (@Bergdorfs), reminding me how pretty the view is from their building, tips on how to be the best self I can be and a link to their site so I can quickly buy whatever product they guarantee will help, lifestyle photos connecting me with other brands that sell within Bergdorf’s walls so I can read up on them, and even more links on even more to buy. And so on, and so on with every brand I have any interest in.

We look, we smile, we ooh and ahh and we may buy, but if we don’t buy, we don’t die.

Now, don’t get me wrong, fashion is what keeps my internet life fun. I don’t talk about fashion in my daily life even half as much as I do online, because I find it obscene and, frankly, boring to most everyone I know. I know that my boyfriend certainly won’t sit down and squeal over the upcoming Fall pieces arriving soon. He will not sit and write lists with me and tell me what he’s coveting himself. I am not inspired by his tastes and style. The fashionable friends I have may support my efforts and partake in the fun, but reality sets in when I’m in the walking world and although I may tweet about “this shirt by Oscar de La Renta is everything”, in reality, it’s actually quite the opposite. We look, we smile, we ooh and ahh and we may buy, but if we don’t buy, we don’t die. Social networking may lead some to believe that they will, in fact, perish if they can’t beat the crowd to a particularly hot item. At least that’s what the brands would have you believe.

You see, the reason why even a stodgy company like Bergdorf Goodman, known for their old school pedigree and snob factor, has embraced the technological age, is because they realize they need to reel in a fresh new set of clientele — which will keep them in business for many more decades to come. Social networking is a relatively inexpensive, easy way to advertise to death every product you may want. They create a compelling online persona, offering a glimpse into that world — and the way to purchase your ticket into that world is only a click or a phone call away. You’re able to connect like never before, with fashion personalities and icons and see what they’re buying in real-time. You have access to the same items. It’s positively dizzying. Because I enjoy fashion so much and because the internet is one of my main outlets for partaking in a group of virtual like-minded folk, I have let myself become bombarded with what, in reality, is actually a copious amount of free advertising under the guise of “fun”. I mute the TV when a commercial is on the air, but I cannot mute this. I asked for this. All because I enjoy shopping at their store, or wearing their clothes, I pay the price.

It would be a more jolly experience, I suppose, if it were not for the fact that I enjoy very high end designers and enjoy shopping at very high end stores. The price of luxury goods has become laughable and offensive, as compared to several years ago. So I am being nudged to constantly read about and desire to buy goods that seem to sell out almost immediately, despite the state of the current economy, and to buy in bulk. The truth is, even the very rich can no longer afford to purchase fifteen pairs of designer shoes in one sitting, if simply for the fact that the price of those shoes far outweighs their quality. Who wants to spend a small fortune on something you know is really only worth a fraction of the price? For me, it’s always been a matter of I don’t care what I am paying as long as it is magnificent. Well, much of it is no longer magnificent. Being taken advantage of in the luxury market is certainly not endearing, not to the girl who starves to afford a designer handbag, nor to the girl who can easily afford twelve of the same handbag.  To some this may seem silly, but the point is this: these brands don’t care. They are still involved in a very lucrative business, made even more so by viewers and fans like you. They will keep advertising to you 300 times daily because someone will finally give in and say yes. Be aware that all those innocent tweets and pins and requests to be “liked” by you on Facebook, are ways for you to be engaged enough to spend your money. 

Ella Milenova has been a collector of high end clothes, accessories and antique boudoir dolls since she was a teenager. She has been sharing her lifestyle through Livejournal (no longer active) and blogging off & on for about 10 years. You can keep up with her via tumblr at http://milenova.tumblr.com/ or twitter @plazapumpkin. She loves her boyfriend, dancing, weird old movies, canines and a good shopping splurge.

Illustration by Katy Jones, featuring a pair of SS12 Gucci pants, D&G bag & the bird from a Jil Sander skirt.