When I was around fourteen, my mom built me a personalized closet for my bedroom. Although this might not seem like a big deal, and my slightly bratty tenth grade self would definitely agree with you, it kind of really was — emphasize on the words personalized closet and built. Meaning, yes, from scratch, HGTV Style.
My closet took about two weeks to make, and involved a lot of polyurethane, glossy (read: smelly) teak wood stain, cursing, and drywall removal. The finished product was nothing short of a miracle after half a month of frustration and sporadic trips to Home Depot: customized with sliders for my shoes, cubbies for my taller boots and more treasured heels, and sections of closet designated for everything between winter overcoats to spring mini skirts and floral summer rompers, the variety of which could be found in almost scary abundance at any Hollister in 2012.
Unsurprisingly, at fourteen, I didn’t really appreciate the amazing gift that was The Closet. Truth is, I still ended up haphazardly stuffing my things into its drawers, tossed over chairs, and half heartedly slung over hangers in no particular order. It just always seemed easier to do as minimal work as possible, particularly when it came to closet organizing.
Now that I’m eighteen, I like to pretend that I’ve gotten somewhat better at the whole “your pants go here, your shoes go there, and your jackets go there” scenario, although in all honestly, I
probably haven’t improved all that much. But when I was frantically brainstorming topics I wanted to write about for this fresh start of my blog, I couldn’t help but mentally journey back to The Closet. I find it so funny that the things that have been so pivotal to shaping my relationship to fashion have come from the most randomly unexpected places.
Okay, so a closet in relation to a fashion blog maybe isn’t so much of a stretch, but still.
The Closet taught me a lot about clothes and the essence of style. By compartmentalizing my wardrobe, however grudgingly, into its small and loving sections, now worn from plastic hanger scuffs and overcrowding, I learned that my closet should always have purpose. That it, and the treasures it held, should never just take up space in my small room, but have meaning. That I should never buy clothes just for the sake of buying, but that every piece should have a place. Not just a place, but a reason, and not just a reason, but a story.
The Closet, my first real closet, my first unshared, just-me closet, taught me that no matter where I go, the philosophy of my closet and the clothes within it should stay the same. And as I go, blog, and venture through the stages, and closets, of my life: first apartment, first apartment in Paris, first apartment with a guy I hopefully didn’t meet on Tinder, I will strive to remember its parables of wisdom: that I should always dress for myself and no one else, but I should dress in clothes that mean something. Every item in my closet should make me feel a certain way, and fit a certain missing jigsaw piece in the puzzle of becoming the ultimate me. My clothes should always have a place and home to fall.
Hitting the flash sale at Goodwill (50% off on Sundays if you know the good spots, like I do) isn’t a crime, as long as the things I buy are working their way into the ever evolving image of the person I want to be. The thigh high boots for confidence, the ultra flared dark wash denim pants for spunk, the polka dotted bandana for devil’s may care ease.
A closet full of things just for things sake is meaningless. A closet full of things that weave a memoir about the girl to which it belonged, about the girl she was, the dreams she had, and the woman to which she aspired: that’s what a closet should be.
NASRI ON SOCIAL: