My first foray into buying from charity shops took place in the town where I grew up. Raised by divorced parents with shared custody, weekends spent with my mum were precious, and I relished the time spent trawling through books and clothes racks with her on Saturday mornings. We'd begin the ritual at a coffee shop, reading the newspaper over cups of tea, before heading across the street to begin the day's events in shop number one of many. We'd hunt for antiques and rare finds in the shops we knew to have good book stock. We'd hunt for new-ish high-street clothes in the shops we knew always seemed to have still labelled and unworn garments. And we'd hunt for knick-knacks and novelty bits and bobs in the one shop that seemed permanently overflowing with kitschy, vintage gems.

Sometimes we were just browsing, just mooching for the sheer joy of sifting and hunting and discovering. Other times we were there for singular purposes: on missions we were determined to complete. It was on these occasions when we'd begin the hardcore hunting: ruthlessly scanning clothes rails for frocks suitable for middle-school discos, or reaching to the backs of shelves and displays in search of decorations for pink-themed charity affairs. The items picked up on these occasions remain firmly in my mind, the strongest memory being of a satin, burgundy dress complete with a bow on the front, originally from Matalan but in perfect condition and bought for less than £10, which I wore to somebody's 13th birthday party held in a local village hall, my hair badly curled and my lips doused in Lip Smacker sparkly tinted lip balm. I can picture it all: the tiny shop, tucked into a corner down a street stretching out to the back of town; the rail it was hanging on; the mirror in the cramped, cobbled together changing room and holding the dress up against myself in front of it. It was over 7 years ago now, and yet there remains a sense of magic in my memories about having discovered that dress. I didn't just own it, but found it and sought it out for myself. It wasn't scrolled past on a website, but was acquired in a way that meant it was entirely my own shopping experience. Though in later years I would drift and then come back to buying secondhand, I became acquainted with the joy to be found in the activity early on in my sartorial career.

As a pre-teen, buying from charity shops often involved finding high-street pieces on the cheap. Searching for dresses from Topshop, t-shirts and jumpers from New Look, and old pairs of Converse amidst the racks because they were things I coveted that my pocket money simply couldn't cover. I watched YouTubers uploading haul after haul in which they proudly presented massive Asos and Pretty Little Thing delivery bags to the camera as they unloaded garment after garment they'd show off to the camera, never totally in love with each and every item they'd purchased anyway. When I began to work full time, and then when I began attending university, my financial situation changed significantly. I suddenly had a huge amount of dispensable income. I wasn't rich, but it certainly felt so, having three-figure sums regularly just sitting in my bank account. I could afford to haul, to place big orders from Asos. Who cared if that dress I'd been eyeing up wasn't truly that great quality? Who cared that that pair of Doc Martens were pretty, but not pretty enough to wear all the time? I had the money, and it felt thrilling to be able to access this world of clothes and shopping I had previously been financially excluded from. I began to buy buy buy on a big scale, placing several orders a week; sending stuff back; ordering other things. My local courier had seen every pair of pyjamas I owned as I answered the door at all hours of the day in my comfiest clothes. After a while, I realised the hauling wasn't making me happy, and that I wasn't in love with everything I was buying. In my new situation, though I had access to the clothes I could only ever window-shop before, I was, in fact, drifting from my personal style, losing my tastes in a system where I was just buying for the sake of it.

Around a year ago now, I fell into a very different youtube hole. Gone were the days of the serial haulers. This new world was comprised of content creators making videos which reflected the changing fashion climate, a climate where the words 'fast fashion' and 'ethical' were being thrown around with regards to clothing. Thrifters. Antique buyers. Sustainable fashion buyers. Slowly but surely, I began to reevaluate things, recognising how much more rewarding it was to curate my wardrobe from sources other than Asos, buying items that were individual to me. I could wear dresses from the 30s, 40s, 50s or 60s and know that I'd love them for a long time, because the style they exhibited was timeless, and not influenced by trends that would come and go. These dresses were flattering, iconic, beautiful: garb from times gone by, loved again in the 21st century. I began to give old clothes to charity, and as I did so, my wardrobe transformed into one that incorporated quirky and individual pieces, with vintage fabrics and, on occasion, garish 80s colours, alongside the high street pieces I still bought from time to time.

Whimsical basket scavenged from Oxfam Magdalen Street

And that brings us to today. I volunteer for Oxfam, on the one hand because I adore being able to put my creative flair and English Literature degree to productive use in a social media capacity, and on the other hand, because I've truly fallen in love with charity shops once more. They are no longer just places for me to find brands and labels I can't afford, but Aladdin's dens of clothes, rails of things to be reinvented and loved, not just discarded. The materials of clothing are creations in their own right, and when their life with one owner ends, it is up to a new owner to reinvigorate it, giving those woven threads back some of their original magic by wearing them in a new way, incorporated into a new owner's specific personal style. We should stop seeing clothes as items that could come and go, able to be discarded without a second thought, but things which exist and live their own lives, if we allow them to live on by buying them second-hand.

If you too would like to find some inspiration in the form of a new generation of YouTubers I discovered, we've compiled a handy watch-list for you below. With Secondhand September well and truly upon us, now is a perfect time to educate yourself on all things vintage!


- Imogen de Jong