Sometimes I fantasize about living in a vintage boutique: ‘set up shop’ in an actual shop.
I dream that that my bed would be an antique sofa, and instead of bed sheets, silk shirts would cuddle me softly to sleep. Faux fur would replace feather down, and a recycled turtleneck or two would do for my pillow. I would rest my head on their woolly fabrics as a vinyl record plays softly next to me, an antique lullaby.
Each day, upon waking in this tranquil wonderland, I would dress myself in timeless outfits and twirl around like Marilyn Monroe (naturally, there would be an exact wig hiding amongst the headwear so I could recreate this superstar moment with nonchalant glamour). Afterwards, I would try on collection after collection, channeling Edie Sedgwick after Marilyn, and perhaps Audrey in the afternoon.
My house would have tiny, delicate rooms—change rooms—and in each, a mirror would reflect all the friends around me: Coco Chanel, Harry Who and Yves Saint Laurent. I would never get lonely, despite living in this vintage boutique alone—for who could possibly feel lonesome with such roommates hanging in her closet, hanging out in her house?
Oh, my home would be a secret wardrobe and it would, indeed, be my heaven. Because, although clichéd, it would be where my heart is: yes, tiny pieces of this heart were, long ago, delicately sewn into each stitch and hem of every pre-loved garment. I’m not sure how or when, but I do know that every time I stumble upon a vintage treasure, my heart seems to fall out from my chest, letting me know that it is reaching for its missing pieces; its missing pieces that I have unknowingly been searching for my entire life, as if a vintage item is somehow essential in making my heart complete, a masterpiece.
Perhaps my heart’s pieces need to have been loved before, or worn as gown, or draped upon the shoulders of one who was once cold, I can’t be sure. All I know is that my heart’s home is in a vintage boutique, and it dreams of living in one.