As a 16-year-old, I was obsessed with finding my own clothing style. Until then, my “style” was something I hadn’t given much thought; then the pandemic arrived, which provided me an unexpectedly ample amount of time to contemplate over the type of clothes I liked and didn’t like. I hunted for clothes online and in the mall, which took me to the usual big-name brands, such as American Eagle, H&M, Urban Outfitters. My once-barren closet grew substantially, though, admittedly, it was all for naught; I was never able to capture a style that felt right. I remember in May 2020, languishing in my isolated room, my low self-esteem felt like a mountain I’d never fully scale. Every day, I was experimenting with my ever-expanding closet, determined to find the “perfect” look.
Once I created a decent outfit, I’d call up my two best friends and we’d meet in the neighborhood park for a socially-distance photoshoot. If they weren’t available, I’d be my own photographer, rearranging my desk and stacking my set of playing cards onto old shoeboxes, tweaking the angle of my lamp just so. I did everything I could to make myself, for once in my life, feel beautiful. Truly, genuinely, unmistakably beautiful. I obsessed over finding the “perfect” look, and my desire to achieve perfection seriously damaged my mental health. My efforts ran unchecked, and proved largely futile.
A consequential visit to the local Goodwill began to change things, though. The visit started a new venture in my life, one where I’ve scrounged through thrift store coat racks and sifted through bargain bins, all to construct a unique assemblage of clothes. After three years, I’ve amassed an entire collection of my beloved collared shirts.
I wear collared shirts so regularly they’ve become my de-facto calling card. Every morning, when we exit our homes and steel ourselves for another arduous go at life, you can expect to find me somewhere around Southeastern Louisiana University, wearing a collared shirt with the buttons undone, earbuds shutting out the rest of the world, a sling of pearls framing my collarbone. Two are a deep-black, one is a gorgeous forest green, my favorite color; many are for formal wear, some are for casual wear, and some serve both roles, including one with a diamond pattern reminiscent of the sweaters the love interests wear in 90s romcoms. Wearing a regular t-shirt, or any other shirt, really, almost feels like cheating now; the collared shirts and I, we’ve developed a sentimental connection to each other, an unbreakable bond, and while I own a plethora of them, here a few that have had a pronounced impact on my life.
Into the Black
My first foray into collared shirts began in April 2021, near the eve of my junior year of high school. Alongside my desperate search for a singular, defining style, I was also preparing to leave dance, my home and sanctuary of almost ten years; I was fired from Chick-Fil-A because I couldn’t make a shift(coincided with my musical’s closing night) and no one could switch shifts with me; I felt stress over my impending senior year, and the onslaught of college applications and critical decisions I had to make; I was still getting used to a new home life after my mother remarried, still learning how to navigate new family dynamics; and, finally, while I had these issues weighing heavily on my mind, I also had to deal with an increasingly cold, increasingly distant girlfriend, one whose admiration I desperately wanted, so much so I cut off all my hair in the hopes a new style would reattract her attention. Not my finest moment, to say the least.
While in the middle of all these disastrous situations, I decided to volunteer as a stage hand in my school’s play, a production of “Dracula.” In my ever-expanding closet, I didn’t own a single fully-black shirt, which meant I had to spend my dwindling chicken money on a new one. I weant to the cheapest place I know: Goodwill. Call it fate or divine intervention, or call it sheer dumb happenstance, whichever you prefer; for some reason, one I’m honestly not entirely sure of, I picked out a black collared shirt, a type of garment I basically never wear outside of the odd professional event. I bought the shirt, wore it both show nights, got caught in the stage lights both nights, then continued to wear the shirt after. Things got worse before they got better; my girlfriend eventually dumped me on the last day of school in our theatre’s green room, a particularly cruel way to end things. Heartbreak’s sting was soothed a little by my black collared shirt, though. I wore it to dance and to school; it took a tad bit of attention away from my almost-bald head just a few weeks later. In the midst of internal and external turmoil, I finally found a type of clothing that felt singularly me. I held that “singularly me” feeling close, it provided me comfort while this chapter of my life, revolving around junior year, dance, and first love, came to a definite close. With that feeling nestled close to my heart, I figured, “Why not buy some more?”
Technicolor Trout
My second venture into Goodwill’s collared-shirt supply netted me a grayish, blackish, uniquely textured shirt with a multicolored silhouette of a fish perched near the left collar. To this day, I’m not sure what that technicolor trout represents, but I’ll nonetheless be forever indebted to the company who produced it for making such splendid merch.
I got the shirt in summer 2021, only a few months after the black collared shirt. At that time, I was out of school, gilrfriend-less, and sporting a few tufts of hair atop my head. I recently began rehearsals for a musical, “Schoolhouse Rock Live!,” at Ascension Community Theatre. I played the bill, one of my proudest feats. I’ve owned the shirt for over two years, yet my most memorable time wearing it was only a few weeks after I first bought it. The shirt, paired with a set of oversized khaki slacks and my O’Reilly’s hat, was my outfit on July 26, 2021, a day spent at the local outlet mall with my soon-to-be senior classmate Rosie Rivas. We traversed the compact strip mall, wading in and out of various stores, well aware that neither of us had enough money to buy anything. Still though, we trekked – well, I trekked, and I was giving her a piggyback ride – under a particularly furious Louisiana sun, until we passed by a Snoopy poster plastered on window of a store I’ve long-since forgotten. Rosie adores Snoopy, so I figured I’d stopped and get a picture with the famous beagle himself.
Evergreen Birthday Wishes
During Christmas break in 2021, I went thrift shopping at a store I’d never been to before: The Purple Cow. Rearing from schoolwork, musical rehearsals, and a creeping case of senioritis,I figured I’d reward myself by shopping for new old clothes. While there, I bought a number of items, including a pair of loose khaki pants I’ve never worn, resigned to collect dust in my closet. I also bought this forest-green collared shirt, a bit oversized but by this point that was par for the course for me. Buying this shirt marked the beginning of green slowly becoming my favorite color. I see green and I see natural beauty, like pine trees overlooking cascading waves in the Pacific Northwest. Crisp, gorgeous, down-to-earth but also regal, in a sense.
On March 24, I threw on that shirt and paired it with my black slacks and pair of black dress shoes and drove Rosie to P.F. Chang’s to celebrate her 18th birthday. It was our first birthday celebration together, and you can feel our giddy excitement through the photo; I, with my expansive, crooked smile and recently-buzzed haircut; her, dawning a dress that resembled an explosion of color, radiating a magnetic, undisputable beauty. Much like my now-favorite colllared shirt, that memory of her and I will always be evergreen in my mind.
Looking Forward
My look has remained consistent for nearly three years now. As I’m writing this, I have on another black collared shirt I acquired from a giveaway at a choir rehearsal, one advertising Ernst & Young Campus Recruiting. Collared shirts are a central part of my identity, an odd aspect of me I’ve grown to adore and appreciate. Since those days of endless pandemic photoshoots, I’ve taken the opportunity to genuinely fall in love with myself. I still have this vague, fuzzy image of “perfection,” if I’m being completely honest. When I delve into my mind’s eye, envision my ideal self, my hair is just a little bit longer, my height is just a little bit taller, my clothes are just a little bit different. What’s different now is I’ve long since accepted I’ll never reach this “perfect” look, and I don’t need to eviscerate my self-esteem in order to find it. There is beauty in the imperfection, one perhaps more alluring.
When I get ready for the day and throw on one of my collared shirts, I am beautiful, my own kind of beautiful.
i love the concept so much!