I’m a Fashion Editor, and I Shop at the Dump

I used to be ashamed of my secret. But I’m ready to come clean.

The plain black wicker bag between my knees bore no designer label, just a “Made in British Hong Kong” tag that dated it to the last millennium. Extravagantly sturdy, it had the air of what magazines might call an investment piece. When the friend sitting next to me at a New York Fashion Week event inquired about its provenance, I decided, for once, not to lie.

“It’s from the dump,” I said.

When I was a fledgling fashion editor, living broke in New York, the dump was my secret. Or at least, it was a secret in New

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