Anne from work gave me a coupon for the Gap. Since I’m not too proud to try and get a discount on pants, I headed over after work. The place was a zoo. All the pants in my size were gone. I bought a sweater (because the four thousand I have are clearly not enough) and headed over to see what H&M could do for me.

In 2000, my best friend and I went to Berlin. Boy did the girls in that city have style - and everywhere we went, if we said, “I like your sweater,” or “What a great skirt,” the inevitable reply was “H&M.”

Walking into that place for the first time, I felt like I’d gone to Poor Girl Heaven. Racks of clothes as far as the eye could see, all filled with modish clothes for less than twenty bucks. And it wasn’t just that the clothes were cool - there were actually finds there. It was something I’d never seen in chain retail. Among the regular tees and jeans, there were really amazing pieces that were imaginative and outré, avant garde and outlandish. It was like shopping in a thrift store, only everything came in my size and three colours. It was love.

When H&M came here, I knew I was in trouble. Walking into that place was like walking into Shoppers: an implied expenditure commitment. Somehow I could never manage to leave without buying something, whether I meant to or not. It was almost annoying - they totally had my number. People would say to me, “I like your sweater,” or, “What a great dress.” My inevitable reply was, “H&M, those bastards.” I thought it was a love for the ages.

Tonight, as I wandered through the cluttered racks, once so full of promise, I couldn’t get over how cheap everything looked. And how the same: six kinds of poof-sleeved blouses, eighteen versions of the empire-waist shift, belted knit dresses ad nauseam. Pseudo-fashion. The skirts weren’t lined, the seams had loose threads all over the place. Anything close to nice was understocked, everything else crowded the racks. My passionate affair with the Ikea of Clothes was over.

But I’ve got a new love now, and I found it in the most unlikely place - the grocery store.

Me and Joe.

The first piece of clothing I bought at the Loblaws Superstore was a tee shirt. I was with my father and, though I was slightly appalled at the idea of grocery store fashions, clothes are clothes and I had to look around. I found the tee on a clearance rack for $3 and I thought what the hell? A few weeks later, in the middle of a Jean Seberg thing, I found a striped Breton-style sweater. I was with my brother; he bought it for me for Christmas. I think it cost about $25.

Since then I’ve found jackets (one of which went with me to Paris) and skirts and a handful of adorable little blouses with lovely details and pretty ruching. At my brother’s encouraging (he has surprisingly fantastic and eclectic taste in clothes) I even bought a black felt hat. Weirdly enough, my new grocery couture compliments my vintage and second-hand closet perfectly, adding charming little modern notes at nearly-second-hand prices. I admit I was a bit ashamed at first (what kind of girl buys her clothes at the supermarket?) but I always did have a problem with passion and impulse control.

It’s all about the details.
Note the slight puff in the sleeve.
At that length, it’s almost awkward - but so charming.
And that hat makes me drool a little.

And more details - Joe Fresh has tights.
socks and, yes, shoes. No half-sizes, though.

This is the best part of the relationship, I know.
My Joe is still trying to impress me, doing all the little things I like - covering buttons, boxing pleats. I know it’s only a matter of time before he sees he’s in demand and starts watering down his routine. But that’s life, I guess. Take it with a grain of salt.

Which, incidentally, is just three aisles over.
c.b.

All photos from L’Oreal Fashion Week. Yes, Loblaws is on the runway - modeled by no less than Coco Rocha. To see more pictures from the Joe show, click here.

A quick note: if you are a better person than I am, this is not your kind of panacea. Most of the stuff is made in China. Just so you know I know. I know.

Tags: coco's blog