Shirts, white like teeth, with perfect creases. I find myself staring through the window at the dry cleaners admiring somebody else’s clothes. Is this what they call window shopping?
Every piece has such an allure. Look, clothes taken care of, loved by their owners. Look, clothes made of nice materials, hence the bother and expense of dropping them off and picking them up days later. Walking into a clothing store isn’t the same. Cheap fabrics, wrinkles, an icky abundance—all within reach. I can’t exactly walk into a dry cleaners and browse the racks. The clothes belong to somebody else, which is why they catch my attention.
I’m not even sure if I want the clothes hanging on the other side of the glass, reflecting a sheer image of my silhouette as if asking to be worn. Instead, they are reminders of the experience of finding the perfect piece, that rare feeling of material fulfillment, and promising yourself to make sure that this garment lasts forever.
There is an overlap between the life of dry cleaners and second hand shops—both offer new chances for old clothes. But in my city, more often than not, the clothes seem to have gone to the charity shop to die. They have either lived a very long life or no life at all, with most of them filled with the same fast fashion labels that define ‘shopping’ here. Pieces from past seasons, crinkled and out of fashion. Rolling Stone t-shirts with fading lips, a shiny dress made for a Friday night, worn once. Heels upon heels, football shoes, community hoodies, drawstring trousers, tartan scarves, 100% polyester.
I barely go shopping anymore, not because I don’t want to but because all the good shops seem to have moved online, and that’s not the same. I long for the experience of physical browsing, the immediate pleasure of trying something on and deciding I want to leave with it. The clothes at the dry cleaners are on display for other reasons, a lack of storage or as an indirect ad. Yet they are full of life. I’m seeing something special, I’m sure.
Going to the dry cleaners. A rare treat, like having your nails done. It’s intimate. The dry cleaner doesn’t touch you physically but knows your stains and creases, the smell of your sweat and your favourite pieces. Through a careful, rigorous process, they provide you with a better version of yourself.
A while ago I found out that you’re supposed to remove the plastic wrapping before placing your clothes back in the wardrobe. They need to breathe, otherwise the fibres will be damaged over time. That said, leaving the plastic on is its own kind of pleasure. I love walking home from the dry cleaner with a coat on a wire hanger, wrapped in a plastic coat of its own, slouched over my shoulder like those boys in Take Ivy. It feels classy, like showing off a new outfit to the world, only that it isn’t new, that’s the point. Underneath the plastic, I’m better than new.
The Iconic dry cleaner Mike Pagano at Jerry’s Cleaners in Greenwich Village once explained his method as killing the garment and bringing it back to life. In order to remove tough stains, he said, the ones that aren’t water-based, like oils and paint and blood, he sometimes adds harsh chemicals. These substances can easily damage the fabric even more but instead they make the stains magically disappear. Somehow. I never really considered the profession of the dry cleaner as anything in particular until I read this. The thought of clothes dying and being brought back to life. Not revitalised — reborn!
A red dress is hanging in the window of the dry cleaner down the road. There’s always long gowns on show, retired or restored from defining events. Proms, weddings, anniversaries. A dead garment brought back to life, like its own rite of passage. Standing outside, the reflection of passing cars briefly blends with the dresses. Red on red, white on white, headlights in the night. It’s on display but it’s not for sale. It’s a quiet yet shared agreement between the dress’s owner and the dry cleaner. Before it’s handed back, ready for a new night, it belongs to them both, or me.