Look, I’m not supposed to admit this. Fashion editors like me are expected to exclusively wear pieces that cost more than your monthly rent while sipping obnoxiously expensive oat milk lattes and pretending we’ve never set foot in a Target. But here’s my dirty little secret: the item that consistently gets me stopped on the street isn’t my Prada bag or those Isabel Marant boots that made my credit card weep. It’s a $22 vintage-inspired brooch from Amazon that I bought three years ago during a late-night doom-scrolling session after two glasses of remarkably unremarkable bodega wine.
I remember the night I bought it. My radiator was making that death-rattle sound that New York apartments specialize in during January, and I was bundled under approximately seventeen blankets, mindlessly clicking through “customers also bought” recommendations after ordering some boring necessities like command hooks and those weird drain-snaking things you need when you live in a building older than your grandparents. The algorithm gods must have sensed my weakness, because suddenly there it was – this ridiculously oversized, Art Deco-inspired crystal brooch that looked like something my imaginary rich great-aunt would have worn to scandalize the country club in 1937.
It was gaudy. It was unnecessary. It was absolutely perfect.
The listing had exactly 3.7 stars and reviews ranging from “GORGEOUS EXACTLY AS PICTURED” to “looks cheap arrived broken.” The photos were clearly stolen from some higher-end retailer and had that tell-tale slightly-too-glossy quality of products that arrive looking absolutely nothing like advertised. I hesitated for about fourteen seconds before hitting “Buy Now” and then promptly forgot about it.
When it arrived three days later, I was honestly shocked. It wasn’t just “good for the price” – it was genuinely beautiful. A three-inch sunburst design with a mix of clear and smoky crystals that catch the light in this completely hypnotic way. The metal wasn’t that cheap stuff that turns your skin green faster than you can say “impulse purchase,” but actually substantial weight with this perfectly imperfect vintage-inspired patina. It looked like something I’d have battled seven other women for at a Brooklyn flea market, not something that arrived in that awful plastic-and-cardboard Amazon packaging that requires basically military-grade scissors to open.
I pinned it to the lapel of my black wool coat – you know, the one I spent two month’s grocery money on during a moment of professional insecurity after a particularly intimidating editorial meeting – and headed to the office. By the time I reached the subway platform, an elderly woman with absolutely killer red lipstick had already stopped me to ask where I got “that magnificent piece.” I mumbled something vague about “vintage shopping” because admitting “Amazon at midnight” felt like fashion blasphemy.
Three more compliments before lunch. One from Simone, our notoriously hard-to-impress fashion director who has literally worked with Karl Lagerfeld and normally notices nothing except incorrect hemlines and poor lighting. She actually stopped mid-sentence during our editorial meeting to point at my chest (not as weird as it sounds) and say, “That brooch is fantastic. Vintage?” I nodded and changed the subject faster than a model changes outfits backstage.
And that’s when I realized I’d stumbled onto something powerful. You see, in fashion, we’ve overcomplicated everything. We’ve convinced ourselves and our readers that style requires enormous investment, insider knowledge, and a willingness to be perpetually uncomfortable. But this $22 piece of costume jewelry was getting more genuine attention than items I’d carefully saved for and strategically purchased from designers I was supposed to worship.
It’s been three years, and I now own this brooch in three colorways (the clear crystal original, a sapphire blue version, and an emerald green that makes me feel like an eccentric divorcée with suspicious amounts of money). I’ve worn them on coat lapels, pinned to berets, attached to simple black sweaters, fastened to the strap of an otherwise forgettable black dress, and once, after three martinis at an industry party, clipped one to the back pocket of my jeans – a styling choice that resulted in both a design director’s business card and a slightly awkward Uber ride home.
These brooches have traveled with me to Paris Fashion Week (where a French woman actually stopped me outside the Dries Van Noten show to ask if it was vintage Schiaparelli, which might be the greatest moment of my professional life). They’ve attended weddings, job interviews, first dates, and one extremely unfortunate funeral where focusing on the sparkly pin on my lapel helped me avoid making eye contact with my ex who inexplicably showed up despite having met the deceased exactly once at a dinner party where he spent the entire night talking about cryptocurrency.
The magic of this piece isn’t just its price tag – though paying less for lunch than for a fashion accessory does feel like beating the system somehow. It’s that it embodies something we’ve lost in fashion: joy, whimsy, and the genuine pleasure of wearing something simply because it makes you happy.
When I pin on one of these brooches, I’m not thinking about trend forecasts or designer pedigrees or whether it’s “still in” this season. I’m channeling my grandmother (who wore cocktail rings to the grocery store), Golden Girls’ Blanche Devereaux, and every fabulous older woman I’ve ever seen on the Upper East Side wearing bold accessories with absolute conviction. It’s the fashion equivalent of dessert – not nutritionally necessary but absolutely essential for a life well-lived.
I’ve since developed a whole theory about this that I call the “conversation piece paradox”: The items that consistently attract positive attention are rarely the most expensive things we own but rather the items with the most distinctive character. My theory has been proven repeatedly by musician friends whose vintage band tees spark more conversations than designer pieces, by my colleague Emma whose handmade ceramic earrings get her stopped constantly, and by my neighbor’s $15 flame-painted cowboy boots that I’m legitimately jealous of despite owning shoes that cost twenty times as much.
Look, I’m not saying designer pieces aren’t worth the investment. The craftsmanship, design innovation, and yes, sometimes even the status they convey can absolutely justify their cost. My carefully saved-for Phillip Lim jacket has lasted through seven New York winters and still looks impeccable. Those Rachel Comey boots have literally molded to my feet like they were custom-made. That’s value that often can’t be replicated at lower price points.
But I am saying that we should stop equating price with impact. Some of the most compliment-generating, joy-bringing items in my wardrobe cost less than a fancy salad. My Amazon brooch. A vintage silk scarf I found at a thrift store upstate for $4. The perfectly oversized men’s button-down I stole from my dad’s closet fifteen years ago that has softened to the exact right texture.
What these pieces share isn’t prestige or exclusivity – it’s personality. They’re conversation starters, mood-lifters, outfit-makers that communicate something essential about the wearer. My brooch says “I might be wearing all black, but I contain multitudes, dammit.” It says “Yes, I work in fashion, but I don’t take any of this too seriously.” It says “I am secretly an 85-year-old society matron trapped in a millennial body.”
This isn’t an anti-designer manifesto or a call to ditch investment pieces for fast fashion – God knows we don’t need more disposable clothes in landfills. It’s permission to find joy in unexpected places and to measure a garment’s value by how it makes you feel rather than what it cost or who designed it.
So while I’ll never give up my carefully curated higher-end pieces that form the backbone of my wardrobe, I’ve stopped being embarrassed about my Amazon find. In fact, I’ve become that most annoying of creatures – the fashion evangelist who responds to compliments by immediately telling you where to buy the thing and how to style it. I’ve probably sent the link to this brooch to at least sixty people by now, usually with seven exclamation points and completely excessive enthusiasm.
Because here’s what I’ve learned in all my years of studying, writing about, and obsessing over clothes: true style has never been about the price tag. It’s about wearing things that make you stand a little taller, smile a little wider, and feel completely yourself. Sometimes that costs hundreds of dollars. And sometimes it costs $22 and comes in a frustratingly difficult-to-open Amazon package.
Just promise me you’ll say you found it vintage shopping if anyone asks. I have a reputation to maintain.