All My Clothes Are Dead People’s
I grieve for loved ones and honor their lives by wearing their clothes
By Lydia Hyslop
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This is a piece about grief and style. I am only half-joking when I say that all my clothes belong to dead people. After surviving the dystopian hellscape of the past 15 months, I’m admittedly a bit unhinged. Add to that five years of being a mom, and well… I have zero fucks left to give. I’m tired. I’ve lost people I loved along the way. I’ve sat by two deathbeds in one year and said some hard goodbyes. I’m beat down, I’ve been in quarantine with a young child forever, and my personal style has absolutely evolved as a result of all of that!
I used to dress for the public eye, whether it was working on a film production or bartending at the local brewery. I have loved vintage my whole life, and my wardrobe was always a mix of colorful vintage pieces and fast fashion basics I bought before I knew any better. I’m a clothes hoarder and will hang onto something for years, decades even! My style had already evolved after becoming a mom to more practical, comfortable everyday wear with the occasional dress-up outfit in the mix for work or a date night, but it was about to change in ways I couldn’t have predicted.
Two weeks before the pandemic, I broke my ankle. It was a bad break, a break for the ages. Doctors were truly impressed at the severity of the triple-break I sustained from a simple slip and fall at a friend’s wedding. I had surgery and couldn’t walk for nine weeks. I spent the next two months bedridden in an opioid fog wearing T-shirts and pajamas — specifically, one pair of thrifted leopard silk pajamas, which became my “fancy” convalescing attire. My activity was limited to scooting around the house on a knee-scooter and going to weekly physical therapy. For that, I needed to wear clothes that enabled me to do my exercises and be comfortable. This ended up being leggings and a sweatshirt nine times out of ten. I think I had to turn off my “style” brain at a certain point and surrender to having zero style as I regained strength and recovered. I remember buying a vintage skirt online a couple months in and feeling very odd “getting dressed up” for an Easter picnic. It felt forced and constricting to wear the outfit even for a few hours, and I was grateful to return to pajamas.
I always receive compliments on Carol’s London Fog sweater or her denim jacket, to which I reply, “Thanks, it’s my dead aunt’s.”
One week after my ankle surgery, the pandemic began. One week after that, I found out that my dear family friend Carol was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer. In September, she passed away. Her son and his fiancee were kind enough to bequeath to me a small mountain of her belongings. She was stylish, an artist with eclectic taste. They gave me her clothes not only because I loved her but also because I own a vintage shop and they were so thoughtful, amidst their own grief, as to hope I could resell some of her closet.
Fast forward to today and you’ll find me writing this in a pair of Carol’s lounge pants. I have found a new way to grieve and it’s by honoring Carol’s life through wearing her clothes. I didn’t get to see her much before she passed. We were both incapacitated on top of navigating the pandemic. I regret that. On the rare occasion that I found myself in public in the past year, I always received compliments on her London Fog sweater or her denim jacket, to which I’d reply, “Thanks, it’s my dead aunt’s.” People are taken aback, but I found myself simply without words beyond the God honest truth. Small talk with acquaintances in public is no longer in my vocabulary.
Pictured: Here I am in a pair of Carol’s lounge pants and a vintage housecoat. This corner of my bedroom has inadvertently become a shrine of relics representing the past year.
At the end of 2020, I inherited another very special collection for my store from a friend in town whose Aunt Cleo passed away. Aunt Cleo’s clothes were remarkably well-preserved, and it felt like I was learning secrets about her life and style while sorting her wardrobe. Her collection spanned the 1950s through the 1980s and featured many union-made dresses and un-Googlable vintage brands. The woman was clearly no stranger to a bold fashion choice, and I learned through talking to her niece that she did live her life boldly and unafraid.
Soon afterwards, another collection came to the shop, and then another and another. I really don’t go shopping for myself anymore; most of my current wardrobe staples are from the recently deceased. I feel like a weird conduit who receives dead people’s clothes. I wash them, sort them, get a sense of the person’s style, pick one or two items for myself if they call my name, then process the rest for my shop (I am a Steward of Stuff, after all). It’s honestly fascinating to me to know a person solely through their wardrobe.
This new way isn’t a huge departure from my lifelong style. I have thrifted and sought out vintage pieces since I was 12. I’ve always been drawn to old stuff, and this feels like a very natural and meaningful transition. In a few years, I may not always be wearing dead people’s stuff, but for now I am.
The keyword in my current day-to-day style is comfort. I am learning to embrace the need to be comforted in a way I never have before. After spending so much time in quarantine, I feel very vulnerable in public these days. Truthfully, even now after having had COVID in January and getting vaccinated more recently, I still avoid going out in public as much as I can. As a person who always worked hard and played hard, to a masochistic point at times, it’s quite counterintuitive to learn how to be more gentle with myself. I am actively learning to choose gentler paths in life, paths that don’t sacrifice self. This new route is apparent in my current fashion choices.
I need clothes that allow me to be able to engage comfortably with my 4-year-old son, and playtime usually takes place on the floor, outdoors, or on the couch. Vintage overalls are in heavy rotation lately. I need clothes that send the message to my body and brain that it’s OK to feel sad, it’s OK that you aren’t strong and tough right now. These ideas are counter to my previous POV in life. I need clothes that remind me that someone I loved once wore this; they picked it out. I can imagine why they loved it, like glimpsing into their psyche for a moment, by wearing it myself.
I do NOT wear heels anymore; I may never again. I’m honestly too terrified, and this subtle-yet-chronic ankle pain is a good reminder to wear flats only. I need clothes that allow me to feel safe, clothes that make me feel protected and held as I process the collective and personal grief of the past year. I consider it a plus if the clothes remind me of my loved ones.
Pictured: Here I am deciding whether to wear a “belt or no belt” to my grandfather’s funeral. I went with no belt, and paired my grandpa’s bolo tie with one of Aunt Cleo’s dresses and some old flats from 2014 H&M that I still had in my closet.
My grandfather passed away on April 27, just two weeks shy of his 102nd birthday. He was epic both in life and in death. My cousins and I split up his bolo tie collection the night he died and decided to wear them to his funeral. I paired mine with a dress from my friend’s dead Aunt Cleo. It felt true to the occasion and to my current personal fashion trend. I am so grateful to have a piece from my ever-dapper grandfather who was so special to our family; he was a real Southern gentleman with the bolo collection to prove it. I will treasure his bolo tie forever. That’s something that money just can’t buy.
Editor: Phoebe Bates | Designer: Emma Geddes | Copy Editor: Katie Frankowicz
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