As a teenager, this box morphed into a drawer — though at that age I probably could have counted my whole wardrobe as one big dressing-up project, given my taste for splashy ‘60s cocktail frocks and faux fur. Slowly though, this drawer filled up with an especially gaudy collection of flotsam: sparkly dresses, capes, plastic beads, fake flowers, hideous wigs, and netting underskirts with sagging elastic at the waistline. It was the kind of place where ripped ‘30s gowns, fabric faded like pressed flowers, were squished in on top of metallic American Apparel leggings that made one look like a scaly, slightly rainbow-tinted lizard. Value and age mattered much less than potential. All I cared about was the effect, merrily veering between garments befitting teenage ravers and slightly down at heel stars of the silent screen.