By Polly O’neal

It’s a mellow Sunday afternoon at the consignment clothing shop that has become a second home to me. A place that takes me as I come. A place that fosters a creative side of me that I wasn’t sure would ever see the light of day again. I usually spend my time here arranging outfits, chatting with customers, and receiving the gratification of being needed by something larger than myself. There is an undeniable sense of self-worth that accompanies a task that has been specifically assigned to you. I bask in the value that is placed on my individuality in this space. As I go about my shift, a daughter and her dad walk in. He’s come to look for golf shirts and she has joined him to say hello to our shop dog, Lucy. I reluctantly inform her that Lucy is not in today. Instead, she’s going to have to hang out with me while her dad browses through the racks of Peter Millar. We look at shoes together while she tells me her feelings about the upcoming homecoming dance. It’ll be her first one. I smile as I remember my nerves preceding my first high school dance. She asks my opinion on her dress options and I simply agree with the one that is clearly her first choice. What she wears won’t matter. She will dance, sweat, and put her hair up even after spending hours perfecting it. She’ll go in a group with her friends, but will inevitably search the crowd for her crush. She’ll make some of her first notable high school memories. She’ll laugh and beam with excitement. She’ll feel scared and weary of this occasion that is brand new to her. She may even cry, but that’s okay. It’s all a part of it. She’ll go home at the end of the night and feel older than she did when the night began.

She points out a pair of Golden Goose sneakers and asks me if I think they’re worth the money. I don’t, and I tell her that. Yet, I remember how I yearned for any material goods that aligned me with my peers at her age, so I refrain from giving her my typical spiel on the inferiority of the brand. She seems to understand, but still runs over to show her dad the luxury sneakers that are less expensive at our shop than anywhere else. A small part of me envies her naivety and detests the individuality complex I have developed over the years.

I return to my homebase behind the counter. Her dad declares that he is ready to check out. He buys three collared shirts and she shyly asks me how old you have to be to work here. I tell her it’s sixteen, so in a couple more years we’ll be expecting her first job application. Before they leave, she wants to know what my Pinterest username is, and I take this as one of the biggest compliments I have ever received. As her and her dad walk out the door, entering the gloomy afternoon, I daydream of myself at her age. What would my fourteen-year-old self think if that same dad and daughter held the door for me as I walked into the shop? What would I think of myself as I regurgitated my typical “Welcome! Are you looking for anything specific today?” Would I like what I saw in my twenty-one-year-old self? How would I receive the style I’ve grown into, that I always fail to describe, but somehow know to my core? Baggy jeans, funky tops, red heels, a tattoo on my right forearm lacking much meaning at all. I think I would be surprised at how loud I am. I believe I would be proud of how bold I am. I hope I could walk my younger self through the store, show her the jewelry, and tell her that it’s all going to be okay. That the good, the bad, and the ugly is building strength. There is a life I love without limitation on the horizon. I want to tell her that life doesn’t end after high school soccer, my parent’s divorce, or my first heartbreak. I hope that younger me would watch as I explain my current life, and the people in it, and that I would be filled with buzzing excitement and bravery. I hope that my lust for life at twenty-one would be contagious and that I would be instantaneously infected. I hope my fourteen-year-old self would leave the shop less worried about how big her hair is.

I hope she’d know to always pick the dress that is her favorite, no matter what anyone else has to say.