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Thrift stores have been rife with cheap cast-offs the past few years, but never more noticeable than now as more consumers embrace what’s being called “deconsumption.” Columnist Genevieve Smith explores why donations aren’t as helpful as we think, and how fashion brands keep benefitting when we don’t vote with our dollars
There’s a shift in the air, and it’s not a May breeze. With a trade war underway, the local landscape is looking a little different for shoppers.
Gone are the days of single-wear occasion outfits and disposable products.
In some trend forecasting circles, the concept has been termed “deconsumption.” While their data shows a newfound rejection of frequent, low-quality purchases in favour of acquiring items of more cultural, financial or personal value, I see past the financial strategy of buying investment pieces during a recession.
It’s not just about holding onto physical currency, it’s about social currency.
I have noticed online fashion influencers taking a quiet but noticeable step away from rocking trends ruled by low-quality, cheap garments, now adopting carefully curated sustainable pieces with customization and individuality in mind.
Unfortunately, this new and seemingly mindful shift (both inspiring and wholly unrealistic for most) has left a minefield of polyester on the racks of the thrift stores — thrift stores that the masses have been sent to shop in the name of “saving the planet.”
First the influencers post about the season’s must-haves linked in their Amazon storefront, then they move onto the next big thing, which right now is looking like a passing commitment to condemning consumer culture. Thank goodness it’s trendy to care (for now).
Sarcasm probably isn’t the most supportive take on the trend, but I have spent the last three months wondering why, even though I spend my time reading reports on the downturn in fast fashion sales, I still feel like we are witnessing the slow, painful death of the thrift store, along with the crushing realization that there may never be a quality garment supply chain that pays and prices fairly.
That’s why I think we need to bring back the boycott in a big way.
The issue with placing an emphasis on ethical, bespoke or designer brands is that the average fashion enthusiast isn’t being sent brand packages. No one bankrolls their newfound social responsibility.
We could spend half a month’s rent on a single pair of trousers, ethically and sustainably made, or we could traipse the thrift, finding only BooHoo, Shein, H&M and the likes — big-box retailers that are slowly but surely being ousted from closets for their trail of ecological and ethical devastation, and whose clothing lasts so few seasons, it’s often donated before the year ends.
Barring serious credit card debt, or the gut-wrenching knowledge that you paid the same price for a plastic shirt that its first owner did, you’re often left with what I like to call the middle class of clothing. A deceptively harmful market that we like to gloss over when discussing the ethics of fast fashion, usually found at your common mall.
At the mall, fast fashion takes on the shape of aesthetically sleek and focus group–tested brands offering you the illusion of absolution with a well-placed green leaf logo.
Even brands such as Oak and Fort, which cites using “recycled materials” and boasts a commitment to never using fur, down, exotic animal skin, exotic animal hair or angora, only scores two out of five on the Good On You online brand rating directory (which I highly recommend checking out if you’re new to research about brand accountability). They don’t offer any insight into their production or supply chain, and provide no evidence for their reduction of emissions or responsible elimination of hazardous chemicals.
Greenwashing (the illusion of eco-friendly practices with no scientific basis or proof) is nothing new in the fashion industry, but the data is staggering nonetheless: brands will continue to lie to us, even when caught.
According to a 2024 report by business conduct agency RepRisk, 30 per cent of all companies linked to greenwashing in 2023 were also flagged in 2024. They’ve learned nothing, other than the simple fact that they can continue to get away with it.
We know that the quality of garments produced today is vastly inferior to similar lines produced by the same brand less than a decade ago. The prices always go up, though.
We watch in real time as the wearability and longevity of the garment is no longer dictated by the amount of money we spent on it. Brands greenwash and dropship and upcharge and trust that our blind loyalty to the illusion of virtue will keep us from complaining and demanding better, more transparent policies and consistent value.
Since 2019, consumer prices have risen overall by 26 per cent, according to the U.S. Bureau of Labor Statistics: food is up 30 per cent, cars are up 25 per cent, but fabric prices? Those have risen by a meagre six per cent.
Sixty per cent of the cost of manufacturing clothing lies in the fabric itself. So if the prices have only risen six per cent, we are still witnessing the choice to select increasingly cheaper materials and move productions overseas, where labour and manufacturing costs can be lowered significantly, all in the name of maintaining an unrealistic price expectation.
Cheaper fabrics, cheaper labour, and you still want me to pay CA$110 for a simple top? I might be willing to pay the extra six per cent if you openly admitted that you switched silk for sateen; I might also decide to spend my money elsewhere, and that’s what they’re afraid of.
While a few rare and reputable brands could be an exception to this statement, I think any loyal Aritzia “client” can confirm that the pieces we bought in high school have outlived and outperformed anything produced after 2015.
That’s why I’m never shocked to find Wilfred, Babaton, TNA or Monday on the racks at the thrift, and nearly all in newer styles.
It’s simply because modern garments have been produced to maximize profits. They fit awkwardly, contain too many synthetic blends to withstand normal wear and tear, and start pilling, pulling, shrinking or failing us in some new and equally tormenting way.
Nothing is sewn with real, varied bodies in mind, because fabric is machine-cut straight. It’s no longer cut or joined on the bias, because that takes longer and uses more fabric, which increases labour costs and, say it with me, lowers profits.
That’s just one brand, in one country. The statistics are there. We know what’s happening, we know we are being shortchanged; we just don’t have clear alternatives.
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Short of learning to sew, opening a trade-only clothing store, converting to nudism, or making enough money to afford to pay someone a living wage to make each pair of their underwear, each of their socks, every one of their shirts and each damn pocket on their pants, it’s almost impossible to find quality garments for a reasonable price for the average consumer.
This is why the amount of cheap, poor-quality fast fashion being donated en masse is a huge threat to the thrift scene, and to the sustainability movement as a whole.
If we send newly converted sustainable shoppers to the thrift store, advertising great finds at a fraction of the price, and all they see is what they saw at the mall a year ago, that’s not only disheartening, but likely a surefire way to dissuade them from ever again attempting to sift through the plastic to find the gems.
If we send all our discarded, synthetic, often damaged or unwearable garments to the thrift store, rather than recycling them responsibly through local drop-off programs and scrap fabric drives, we flood the already oversaturated market with a deluge of useless items that dissuade potential converts from attempting to change the pattern of their consumption.
To a novice thrifter, it can be intimidating to enter the space to begin with, and to be met with such a poor selection of garments is equally challenging.
As a seasoned sourcer, even I have been sorely disappointed lately with the quality, selection and the cleanliness of the garments offered at my usual haunts. No wonder people haven’t given up the mall crawl: the thrift is slowly dying, and we’re in a recession. It was already really hard to shop responsibly, and now you’re on a budget.
I empathize with the mall shopper. I, too, would be sad to try thrifting only to find that it’s full of the things we were lectured not to buy while being told to get out there and shop secondhand — the irony is palpable.
For this reason, now more than ever, it’s essential to turn to our beloved markets, small businesses and vendors in the community.
They are the best resource for finding curated, thoughtfully restored or preserved pieces, with the knowledge and experience to provide quality garments that didn’t come at the expense of someone’s quality of life, or the environment.
We are the only ones who can shift the tides in favour of rewarding the right ideals. We shape the future of fashion.
So while it’s nice to say we’re giving up fast fashion, we also have to start sorting our clothes when we give them up.
We have to do our part to make sure that we aren’t further damaging a delicate ecosystem in an attempt to absolve ourselves of the guilt of overconsumption. It doesn’t disappear when it hits the bin, so don’t shove it all in there hoping it will help someone. Do your part to find out who needs what, and what might no longer be worth wearing.
Deconsumption isn’t a trend I want to criticize. I think we could all use a little “deconsumption.” That’s going to look different for everyone, and that’s okay.
Responsibility is not a one-size-fits all directive that demands you commit to wearing rain-fed, hand-spun linen grown on your estate for the rest of your life.
It only demands that you do your part to make the right choices not only for yourself, but those that come after you.
It demands that you not shy away from learning to do better, even if it means demanding better of companies that don't care if their workers get paid, so long as the executives do.
It means making things a bit harder for a while to make them better forever.
You see, brands only go out of business if we cut them off. We have seen consumer boycotts work incredibly well in so many sectors, but the fashion industry has this ephemeral quality that lets it slip right back to being problematic with few to no repercussions, and it’s infuriating.
They only notice when we’re gone, and we let them off the hook too often. Refer back to the greenwashing statistic above. They can and will do it again. It’s time we kick our fast fashion habit once and for all: not only should it be the brands that get bad press, but the posers, too.
Hold brands accountable, hold local business up. Find your community and use the indomitable spirit of fashion people to find pieces that will last, that speak to you, of you, and what you believe in.
Rage against the death of the thrift. Rage against the wolves in shitty pant suits peddling polyester at both ends of the brand parabola. Rage against the way this is set up.
I can’t tell you to stop buying cool clothes: I haven’t figured out how to stop either. It’s in our nature to want more. It’s just that it’s also in our power to demand better.
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Genevieve Smith is a fashion stylist, writer and founder of Gifts of Thrift. As a yard sale enthusiast, thrift store supporter, and die-hard environmental entrepreneur, she has spent the last two decades trying to figure out how to convince people it is, in fact, cooler to care. Her column for The Vintage Seeker, ThreadFul, covers the intersection of thrifting, secondhand fashion, ethical style and sustainability.
