Halloween is a real terrific night. We get to put on costumes and step into another self. Some are conceptual and cumbersome—the Statue of Liberty or the state of Florida, for instance. Others are more like alter egos or aspirations from within—Superman or Like A Virgin-era Madonna. These costumes share one thing in common: on the morning of November 1st, they end up in the trash, or the far recesses of the closet or garage. They're useless beyond Halloween.
They are exactly the opposite of those pieces in our wardrobe that are built to last, that take time to break in, that get better with age. These pieces—think leather jackets, jeans, Birdwells—become like a second skin. They are not only a joy to wear, but we have ongoing, years-, sometimes decades-long relationships with them. They become reminders of who we are and where we've been. And in this ephemeral, ever-changing world, ain't that a good thing?
More often than not our deepest essence can be found by a process of stripping away, unmasking. But in the case of these pieces they are imbued with us, they hold a bit of our spirit.