As a teenager, this box morphed into a drawer — even though at that age I in all probability could have counted my entire wardrobe as just one major dressing-up challenge, given my taste for splashy ‘60s cocktail frocks and fake fur. Slowly nevertheless, this drawer loaded up with an primarily gaudy selection of flotsam: sparkly dresses, capes, plastic beads, pretend flowers, hideous wigs, and netting underskirts with sagging elastic at the waistline. It was the kind of place wherever ripped ‘30s gowns, cloth pale like pressed flowers, ended up squished in on major of metallic American Attire leggings that produced 1 look like a scaly, a little bit rainbow-tinted lizard. Benefit and age mattered significantly significantly less than possible. All I cared about was the result, merrily veering amongst clothes befitting teenage ravers and a little down at heel stars of the silent monitor.