Cheap chic fashionable these days

I grew up in a family of penny pinchers. Hated it at the time; thank them for it now.

Because like any good lesson passed down by parents, I didn't appreciate the value of their discipline until the money getting spent was my own.

Then my husband and I became starving post-college journalists. We had a little apartment, no money and hardly any "real" furniture.

In college, this lifestyle was cool. But now in the adult world, everyone was getting married and buying new stuff for their new adult-style houses.

That's when we fell in love with this line of mission-style furniture. I remember how we scrimped and struggled to buy this armoire for $900, probably akin to six months of our combined salaries at the time.

A few weeks later, a co-worker called to say he'd spotted the entire bedroom suite from the same furniture line at a local thrift store. The price: $300. The pieces were, he assured us, in perfect condition.

My husband borrowed a pickup and high-tailed it over. We still have that suite, and every time I look at it, I see hundreds of dollars saved.

And ever since then, I've loved to bargain shop. It's the thrill of the hunt and bragging rights among like-minded shoppers over a great deal nabbed.

So I figure one upshot of the tanking economy is that bargain-hunting is en vogue, at least until the economy eases and our collective amnesia propels us back to high-end shops. But for now, I'm feeling very hip.

Some culture-watchers dub it cheap chic.

I prefer to think of it as revenge of the cheapskates.

I got an e-mail last week from a fellow Mount Pleasant mom about an upcoming consignment event by Charleston Repeats, which holds big seasonal sales for baby and children's stuff marketed with an upscale flair.

"Should be great stuff 'cause they only take clean 'upscale' items!!" she wrote. She was consigning for the first time.

Now, this is a mom who is beautiful, nice and always stylish. And so are her kids. They live in a pretty house and drive nice cars. They are the Joneses.

So I figure if she is consigning and sending out e-mails inviting folks to join her, times are a-changing for the better.

Around the same time, another friend called to alert me to a new consignment store on James Island called Hip Thrift. I just love the name. Shouldn't it always be hip to be thrifty?

There was a day when that was the case. Of course, it was after our last massive economic avalanche.

Then, as the years grew bullish, the pressure built to spend way too much, often on things we didn't really need, I suppose to show other people we could afford to do so.

Now, instead of keeping up with the Joneses, I say we outbargain them.

Ever since my older child outgrew her first tiny Onesies, I've shopped and consigned at Once Upon a Child.

Why spend $25 on a preschooler's slacks when he will only come home with them covered in paint and dirt? Give me $3 pants any day even if it means another 4-year-old wore them first. I confess that I don't understand why parents spend $60 on kids shoes that cannot enjoy a proper trip through the mud.

I remember buying my daughter's first bike at Once Upon a Child, a hot pink Mongoose with sparkly streamers flowing from the handlebars. I sold it again when we were done with it, so now another little girl is burning up the asphalt for less than $20.

And I still have the dresser I bought my son from Goodwill several years ago. I stripped it and painted it all sorts of cute shades of blue and yellow. You know what? If he takes a Sharpie to it one day, which is entirely realistic, life still is good.

Not that I haven't stumbled along the way.

One Christmas season, I brought home this velvety evergreen dress for my daughter with furry white trim.

I showed my husband. He asked the price. He scowled. I returned it.

A week after that Christmas, I spotted the same dress on the bargain rack for $5. I kid you not.

So this Christmas, she looked especially beautiful in that velvety dress. If she wears it once, then I suppose it's worth what I paid. I'll consign it soon enough anyway and feel cheaply chic when I do so.

Reach Jennifer Berry Hawes at jhawes@postandcourier.com or 937-5743.