A woman at a bar last month leaned over while I was waiting for a drink and said, completely unprompted, “that necklace is doing a lot of work for that top.” I still don’t know if it was a compliment. My friend Delia thought it absolutely was, said the woman looked genuinely jealous, but I’ve replayed it about forty times since and I think she just meant the necklace was carrying the whole outfit by itself, which, fair, because the top was a plain black tank I’ve had since 2019.
That’s the thing about a gold necklace on a night out though. It either earns its spot in about four seconds or it starts annoying you by the second drink. Mine has a clasp that sits slightly to the left no matter what I do, and I spend half the night nudging it back like I’m adjusting a picture frame that’s determined to hang crooked.
Cost per wear on the one I actually reach for is embarrassing to admit.
Twenty two dollars from a stall at the flea market on Hawthorne, worn probably thirty times since spring, so we’re at under a dollar a wear, which is the kind of math that makes me insufferable at dinner but I stand by it.
Over a high neck it reads completely different than over something low cut, and I didn’t expect the gap to be this big. On a turtleneck it looks like jewelry, a decision, something you thought about. On a low neckline the same chain suddenly looks like it’s trying to fill space that maybe didn’t need filling, and I’ve had nights where I put it on, looked in the mirror, and taken it right back off for that exact reason.
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The gold look holds up fine for about three weeks of actual wear and then you start noticing the color’s gone slightly warm and cheap looking near the clasp, where your neck and everyone else’s neck touches it most.
Not tarnished exactly. Just tired. Mine’s tired right now and I keep wearing it anyway because replacing it feels like admitting defeat.
I’ll say this honestly, one of the chunkier pieces I bought this year is a gamble. It looks incredible on my coworker who has the collarbones for it and the confidence to not touch it all night. On me it looks like I raided a jewelry box that wasn’t mine. I bought it anyway because the price was too good to leave on the table, eleven dollars, and I’ve worn it exactly twice, both times adjusting it in a bathroom mirror wondering if tonight’s the night I finally look like her.
That’s buy number six for the year, good column, mostly because of the cheap flea market chain doing quiet, reliable work while the expensive looking gamble sits in the drawer being judged by strangers on trains who, so far, have said nothing at all.
