The first chill of winter wind cutting through my layers always takes me back to my childhood, when the bitter cold always evoked the same feeling of dread in my bones: the horror of the winter parka. I vividly remember trying to sneak out the back door into the rolling hills of the first snow; tiptoeing across the icy tile floor to slowly open the squeaky door, I almost expected my mother’s slightly annoyed voice to stop me in my tracks with, “Wait, wait, you forgot your winter coat!”

I can still feel the overwhelming entrapment puffy garments meant for me. Stuffed into those marshmallow-like neon jackets, I was sweaty and annoyed, completely paralyzed from moving my arms in any practical manner and certainly unable to maneuver through the snow at a reasonable speed.

Apparently my mom enjoyed this feeling. Every year she pulled out her very own puffer, an item we coined her “sleeping bag coat,” turning her into a small human taco in a black insulated tortilla.

I freed myself from the chains of the puffy winter coat as soon as I was old enough to reasonably make wardrobe decisions for myself. I use the term “reasonably” quite loosely. For years I waded through the North Vancouver snow in next to nothing, always near hypothermia but never quite humble enough to admit it, especially to my triple-layered-taco mom. By the time I realized I was sick of feeling hypothermic every winter, I was already off to university in Toronto, a land that all Vancouverites warned me was, “so cold you couldn’t even go outside in the winter.” My very stylish father was alarmed by this news, and in order to ensure my survival in the desolate artic tundra of Canada’s East, he vowed to buy me an impenetrable parka.

True to his word, on the first day we landed in Toronto, we went shopping to find the ideal warm winter wrapping; I ended up with a fantastic navy blue twill parka lined with light blue silk and layered with pockets of down insulating the inside, complete with an Eskimo-style fur hood and big shiny silver buttons.

Although my mother was a little disappointed I turned down the black shiny puffer-coat options she had presented, when she felt the weight of my new parka she was satisfied; I would be warm.

Over the years, having suffered through winters full of nagging and many claustrophobic moments of being buried under too many layers, I’ve come to realize my mom was just trying to teach me the most important survival skill in a Canadian winter: staying warm, inside and out. In retrospect, the donning of the winter coat was always linked with hugs and kisses, warm shortbread cookies, and homemade apple cider — all my mother’s ways of keeping her family as warm as possible. Now in my twenties, I am always eager to layer up each winter with my parka, sweet treats, and lots of love — proof that mothers always know best. My mother, to this day, still wears her sleeping bag coat, proudly donning it every holiday season.

- Alyssa Garrison
Photography by Erika Neilly

This week Serah-Marie forwarded me a press release from a company called Cakewalk Designer Dress Rentals. It’s a simple concept: the company offers Canadian women the chance to rent “the latest designer duds” at a “serious fraction of the cost.”

Aside from the ill-considered use of the word “dud,” it almost seems like a good idea. It makes elitist fashion accessible and, as the PR points out, it “greens” fashion by recycling a garment that might otherwise be worn only once or twice. Sounds great, right? So why does this leave a bad taste in my mouth?

When I was in high school, most of the kids in my classes wore Ralph Lauren and Bass Weejuns. Our family couldn’t afford that stuff. I remember feeling like a country bumpkin in my cheap, blue-white Bi-Way shirts. When mom and I went to the Salvation Army, I would scan the racks for secondhand Polo and LaCoste. (To this day I can spot a Ralph Lauren button-down Oxford by only a square inch of fabric on the shoulder.) I quickly learned which eras mirrored others and how to approximate styles. In my painfully insecure teenage years I learned to fit in without being rich.

After high school, I realized my skills could help me “make” runway looks, too. I learned to mix and alter, and to skew a season’s lines to suit my body type and liking. I could spot the quality garments on secondhand racks. My tastes matured and my personal style evolved. I stopped trying to fit in and started having fun. When it came to fashion, all that scrounging had cultivated my imagination. I didn’t have the option to rent a designer dress – and I didn’t need to.

The problem with things like Cakewalk (or the SATC-immortalized Bag, Borrow or Steal) is that they perpetuate the notion that Label is King. They suggest it’s better to have a designer dress for a day than to go unbranded, as if association with that label makes us more chic, more worthy. The garment itself ceases to have value outside of the name on the tag and the experience of being seen in it. And, at the same time, the more accessible so-called “luxury” goods become, the less we’ll ever need to think about what we wear or why. Discriminating style goes out the window in favour of passing whim and fad. (If you don’t have to keep it, why consider your choice?)

I’m not saying it’s bad to have great, designer clothes – but the easier it is to have something, the less we bother to consider its meaning.

At WORN, we engage in a lot of discussion about the assigned value of clothing. From our perspective, that assignment is often personal or sentimental; we keep garments that we associate with people or events. Sometimes we love something because it’s remarkably made or fits us perfectly. Maybe a particular style will signify a shift in cultural taste, an era, or a unique and iconic talent – its representative, and we love that, too. But whatever our rating system, these values come attached to experience - and time. If we’re just renting the stuff we like best, what the hell is left in our closets?

And honestly, I’m just not sure I want to wake up after a great party and drop the dress I wore into some return slot like yesterday’s Blockbuster rental.

- g.

image from Nun’s Boilproof Thread Catalogue

I came across them two months after the deadline I had given myself. On the bottom shelf of a cluttered but charming vintage shop they sat in waiting. Gently used Nine West oxfords within my humble price range (a mere $28). Since then they have been my constant companions, taking me from crowded basement concerts to a recent 3 a.m. hospital visit for stitches. It wasn’t until a few weeks ago when my boyfriend casually mentioned that it may be time for their retirement that I even considered parting with them. Although he may be right (the inside of the shoes are slowly shedding woodchips and transforming into a sawdust-like texture), I couldn’t possibly trash them without first paying my respects to where we have been together. Instead of providing a sappy list of our ten best moments, I have decided to pay tribute to my once lovely shoe’s casualties. Here then, is a list of events that have led to the unfortunate demise of my oxfords.

January, 2010: On an overnight bus trip to Montreal a can of hairspray exploded in my travel bag, leaving the left shoe a sticky mess which needed to be dissolved under the hotel hairdryer for about 45 minutes. This left permanent scarring in the form of a large dark strip near the outside heel.

March 2010: Right shoe loses elastic fastener.

May 2010: A race down a flight of stairs to the bathroom at Czehoski’s ends in my roommate tripping both of us to ensure no one’s victory. Laughter ensues, but left shoe’s upper button is severed on impact and lost somewhere between the sink and stall.

June-September 2010: Late nights and rain drenched walking has led to some inner deterioration. When I remove my bare foot, little wood-like pieces stick to my toes.

Reflecting now, it does seem to be my own carelessness and neglect that has brought my beloved oxfords to this point. Perhaps not wearing them to an event where a kiddie pool in the middle of the dance floor is the main attraction, or even going out of my way to slip on socks before leaving the house, could have prevented this premature passing (or at least helped control odour). Despite their now shabby condition, I do still rotate them into my wardrobe, but I think this may be based on purely sentimental reasons; so they sit, in my foyer, waiting to be worn. Though I may gain the courage in the next few weeks to kick them to the curb (in the nicest way possible), I know that they will always be present in memory, as well as many, many photographs, anytime I reflect on the past year.

- Casie Brown

A few weeks ago, I dyed my hair blue – not my whole head, but a fairly substantial bottom layer. The impulse to dye came not from a Clementine-esque desire to mark any major life change (although I’ll admit after reading the post, I pondered hair dye pretty seriously), but from feeling like I wanted to challenge myself – both aesthetically and, you know, in life. I wanted to get into the habit of doing things I didn’t think I could do. Hair seemed like a good place to start.

In the time since, I have learned not only that I should never underestimate the power of hair dye (and the Worn blog), but a few other things, too.

(And I do feel braver.)

10 THINGS I’VE LEARNED ABOUT HAVING BLUE HAIR

1. It looks nice with blue hats.

2. It stains my towels.

3. And sometimes also the tiles in the shower.

4. And my neck, at the beginning. And the collars of my shirts.

5. It’s a good way to make friends. (I continue to be shocked by the number of strangers who talk to me about it. I have met more people in my classes this year thanks to my hair than in the last 3 years of my degree combined.)

6. It looks really cool in braids.

7. It has dramatically increased the number of conversations I have about Smurfs.

8. It has also dramatically increased the number of times people serenade me with songs that have “blue” in the lyrics.

9. It has given me a (very tiny bit of a) reputation as a rebel.

10. It makes me feel tough. In some ways, I feel like it gives me permission to be tough.

What have you learned from your hair-dye experiences?

- Hailey Siracky