I used to really love fashion. When Cope and I met during college, my room was decorated on the cheap with a picture rail of haute couture ads torn from Vogue and Bazaar. Hazy memories suggest I once followed and even embraced trends as a whimsical way to mark the passage of time. Like a friend recently said about herself, I used to dress as a way of letting people know that I was interesting, relevant, worth talking to.
Cope used to talk about those pictures as one of the things he found intriguing about me in the early days, before we knew each other well. It’s a good thing we did get to know each other, because hoooo-boy did those ads turn out to be false advertising for my typical way of life. [Tweet “Is there something called a morbid giggle? There should be.”]
Seventeen years later. It’s November, 2014. 7:15 on a school morning. I’m only three sips deep into my sacred morning coffee. Standing in front of my closet. Perusing my clothing options. Is there something called a morbid giggle? There should be.
I realized I was looking not at a wardrobe but at a uniform. And not a cute Catholic schoolgirl uniform or a classy Singapore Airlines flight attendant one. Nope, just an endless cycle of Levi’s Bold Curve trousers (jeans in three washes and two pairs of corduroys), Old Navy Perfect Fit tank tops and 3/4-sleeve cardigans. All of them washed practically to oblivion, converging from their original rainbow of colors onto the same dull shade of “Meh, everyone’s mostly focused on the kids anyway.”
It’s not a terrible uniform for an active mom who works from home and insists — despite having dropped all other pretensions years ago — that yoga pants are for yoga class only. It doesn’t show excessive skin, ride up the butt crack, or ask for snacks while you’re trying to get an appointment with the vet. Heck, I still like it. I still wear it some of the days.
I just don’t want to wear it all of the days.[Tweet “The alchemy of polka dots and oversized sunglasses and the legs I’d love to have made me click.”]
I first came across Stitch Fix through a Facebook ad. If you’ve read this far, you already know how much time, money and energy I like investing in clothes. You can imagine how much pressure I like to feel from salespeople and subscription services alike. You can see why I thought twice and three times before clicking on that ad. Yet somehow the alchemy of polka dots and oversized sunglasses and the legs I’d love to have made me click. And register. And schedule my first Fix.
Eight months and four fixes later, Stitch Fix and I are still going strong. Here’s why.
- Honestly? You don’t have to shop. Save that finite decision-making willpower for a benevolent world takeover. Kidding not kidding.
- You’ll discover lots of new styles that look great on you. Now I only have to wear my uniform when I want to!
- It’s like shopping with a more style-conscious friend and having her say, hey, I think this would look great on you. Except without the shopping. Definitely no shopping.
- You choose your price range and delivery schedule.
- There’s seriously NO pressure. Worst case, you keep nothing and lose the $20 styling fee that would otherwise be applied to your purchase.
- This is dorky, but I mean it: As someone who runs a household and a (very) small business, it’s SO great to pay someone to look out for your own personal interests in a way that shows.
- Every time I’m wearing something other than an Old Navy tank top, my mom gets to be like, “Did you get that from Stitch Fix?” And the answer is always yes. Which is a win for both of us.
- A few of the pieces I’ve kept have been of meh or even meh-minus quality.
- More of it has to be dry cleaned or hand washed than I’d like.
- From what I’ve read, if you like to shop and hunt for sales, you can get some of the same pieces on sale for cheaper elsewhere. (To me, not shopping is worth the full price, because I’d never have these pieces otherwise.)
[Tweet “Don’t be afraid to ask for what you want. But do be nice. It’s the ticket to happiness.”]
Tips & Tricks
- Tell your stylist EVERYTHING. Make it awkwardly honest. Say your waist to hip ratio is unprecedented. She won’t judge.
- If you use Pinterest, make a killer board to show your style. They really do pay attention, and it helps them a lot to have something visual to work with.
- Fill out the feedback requests when you check out after each order. Be polite but firm.
- As with anything in life, don’t be afraid to ask for what you want. But do be nice. It’s the ticket to happiness.
- For more information about how Stitch Fix works, check out their official FAQs.
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After months of referring a zillion personal friends individually, I just became a Stitch Fix affiliate. Nobody asked me to. I didn’t even know it was a thing until I Googled it with my fingers crossed. That means if you click the links here and decide within a week to schedule a fix, I’ll get a little kickback. Nothing to write home about. Just a little help keeping the blog rollin’ on. If you plan to try it and my experience helped you decide, I’d appreciate if you’d use these links. But you know how I feel about sales pressure. So go ahead and give me Ye Olde Finger instead if you prefer. It’s cool.