Aardvarks was still open, and the Wasteland staked its claim as the epitome of cool in my teenage perception. Dusk during West Hollywood Springtime had me, completely. I remember what I was wearing like it was just yesterday: a 60s paisley velvet blazer, platform shoes, black hotpants, and tights. It was the 90s. Walking down a Melrose Avenue side street wedged between my two favorite guy friends, a gallery caught their attention. By the entrance, a guy sitting on the sidewalk called out to me "Nice jacket," validating what I inherently knew.
The smog in the air cocooned our innocence, and in that moment I was in love with everything. It was at that precise second that my commitment to vintage fashion assumed a profound, almost spiritual, dimension within me. It was not clear to me then, but that surreal moment etched itself into my heart's canvas, a memory woven into eternity.
My gratitude towards the companionship of those friends remains timeless because they never cast doubt upon my elation. To them, my exultation was both reasonable and shared, a sentiment forever intertwined with their dedication to the world of art, music, and West Hollywood at dusk in 1994.
And so, this marks the birth of passion.
With fondness, Heather
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