It started with social media, as so many stories begin these days. A friend and colleague posted a link on Facebook, proclaiming, “I’m officially a rabid fan.” I clicked, intrigued, and my very own wish fulfillment fantasy unfolded in front of me until I could click no more. The link took me to Stitch Fix, a styling service that delivers handpicked clothing to your doorstep, five items at a time. Within an hour, I had a shipment scheduled to arrive at the earliest possible date. I was giddy with anticipation.
According to testimonials featured on the site, women love the service for any number of reasons: no more trying to fit dressing room time into busy work/travel/childcare schedules, joined by choruses of “Wow, I never would have picked this for myself, but I love it!” and “It’s like Christmas in [insert month here]!”
Why was I seduced? Because I hate shopping, both online and in the flesh. Hunting through clothing racks, trying on different styles, putting guilty pleasure purchases on the credit card — none of that appeals to me. I can take about 30 minutes of retail environments before I get grumpy, petulant, frustrated, and generally unpleasant to be around. I consider emerging from a dress shop without anything to show for my time spent inside a personal victory over capitalism.
The problem is, I still need clothes. Not shopping means wearing things past the point of professionalism, still looking like an art student four years after graduating. I need help, and Stitch Fix was offering it to me in the most appealing way. With minimal effort on my part, someone would do all the dirty work of finding clothes long enough for my 6’1″ frame and effectively tell me what to wear and how to wear it. It’s personal shopper meets Task Rabbit, without any pesky face-to-face interaction.
So when my first “Fix” arrived (a questionable reference to shopaholicism?), optimism prevailed over my natural inclination towards cynicism. “I hope you enjoy your first fix!” read the card from my new stylist (XO, Heather). Nestled inside the package were three tops, one skirt, and an infinity scarf — each more preposterously unflattering and ill-suited for me than the last. I was offended — didn’t Heather know me? Couldn’t she see that I would never, ever, wear a front-twist top with a faux leather detail across the shoulders?