Ditch the dry cleaner; advice from someone with better sweaters than my own

A few years ago, I went to a party. It was a casual type of party, or so you’d think. Outdoors, autumn, middle of the day, kids running around. It was a beautiful day; the sounds of children all around us, color in the trees, tasty food, plenty of friendly conversation.

There was only one problem: I was wearing a down vest.

It’s part of my uniform when the weather gets chilly: denim, wool, and down vest. Hell, it’s everyone’s uniform up here. But I wasn’t up here at the time. I was Elsewhere. And in this Elsewhere, people are apparently…uh…well dressed. They are coiffed. They have manicures. They wear kitten heels. And apparently down vests are not part of the uniform. I stuck out like a sore thumb.

I’m mostly really glad about the choices that I made in this life. I love that that most days, I get to clomp around in Muck boots, which, indeed, are often filled with muck. I love that we have a “mud season,” and that I know that when mud season ends, a patch of chives will sprout outside my kitchen door, just as it has year after year.  I love that every 4th of July, I attend a small-town parade where half the town marches, the other half watches, and then everybody meets at the bottom of the parade route to eat cake made by the local bakery. And  that many mornings, when I’m on my way to a meeting, I must stop driving to let geese cross the road.

Still, there are risks to this lifestyle, and one of those risks involves leaving home, going to social events where the other guests don’t drive cars with the Check Engine light on in perpetuity, or where it is clear they can the afford, say, a personal trainer or the out-of-pocket costs of a good dermatologist. There I am, the Clunky Weirdo from Vermont, sugarbush cushman standing around in a bulky down vest.

And this is how it was on this day. I was no longer at an earth-friendly potluck where people spoke of tahini. No, suddenly, I was surrounded by uniformed caterers passing canapes, while fresh-from-St. Bart’s guests swilled cocktails and discussed flipping Miami condos.

(“No place for those prices to go but up,” said one of the guests confidently on that day. “Those condos are a sure bet.” This was the fall of 2006, FYI).

At this party, I saw someone I recognized, a friend of a friend. Blonde, chic, tiny, glamorous, this gal. Lives in a doorman building on the Upper East Side of Manhattan, right on the park. Doesn’t travel by subway. Ever. The first time I met this woman, she was on her way home from a polo match in the Hamptons.

May I remind you at this point? I was wearing a down vest.

“Uh,” I said. Crap! She probably doesn’t know about mud season! And I don’t know a thing polo matches! Crap! Crap! Must make conversation, but how?

“Uh,” I stumbled. “I like your sweater.”

(and I really did like it — of course I did. Our local shopping options are Walmart and Goodwill and stores where they sell rugged clothes by Patagonia and the North Face, and here was something adorable and fitted and fuzzy with three-quarter length sleeves).

The woman cocked her head slightly, and lifted her hand delicately to the sweater’s neckline, touching it just-so. “Why thank you,” she responded, not unkindly. “It’s from the collection.”

I looked at her blankly. What I wanted to say was, “you collect sweaters?” But I didn’t. Instead, I tried to nod sagely and look in the know. “Oh, the collection.”

It turns out that this woman headed up the sales team for a line of designer sweaters, except that in New York, sales is called merchandising, and sweaters are called knitwear.

(if I remember correctly, the line was named something like Vous N’Avez Pas Assez d’Argent. Something like that anyway, though I could be misremembering).

Anyhow, we got started talking about knitwear, and about wool, and about which big-name retailers use superior wool (Banana Republic), and which retailers use lower-quality wool (meh – probably everyone else, though I can’t recall names). And we talked about wool care, and I began to feel a little less self-conscious about my vest, and then she said something that blew my mind.  When I mentioned dry cleaners, she gasped a little.

“Oh, I never use the dry cleaner for my knitwear,” she said. She of the polo matches and kitten heels, was horrified at the thought.

Now, I’ve always avoided dry cleaners too — neurotoxins, you know. plus, I’m cheap — but this woman seemed neither irrationally frightened by chemicals nor troubled by cost. She seemed genuinely interested in what was best for her knitwear.

“Never?”

She shook her head. “Never.”

“Do tell,” I said, intrigued. She leaned in, and I felt like I was being let in on a secret.

She murmured two words to me then, two simple words, and these two words blew my mind: “baby shampoo.”

Not some specialty product that can only be found in boutiques in Manhattan or Easthampton. Not even Woolite or Dryel or something from late night infomercials. Nothing fancier than a capful of baby shampoo, available at any Rite Aid. She even uses it in her washing machine. On cashmere.

It’s a crazy thing, I tell you. But tell you I must, for the weather is warming, and soon we will pull the wool out of our closets, get it all washed up, packaged away, so that we can make room for our summer wardrobes (which in my case amounts to T-shirts, more T-shirts, and a handful of jersey weight athletic capris, but at least the down vest will be gone for a while).

And while we’re doing that? There’s no need for us to package up these sweaters and take them to the dry cleaners.

Here’s what you need to know about washing wool sweaters knitwear with baby shampoo, in fifteen short thoughts:

1. You can use a washing machine (I swear you can) on a short delicate cycle, providing your washing machine doesn’t “agitate” during this delicate cycle.

2. Agitation is the motion that causes the wool fibers to rub up against each other, which will cause “fulling,” or felting. In other words: shrinking. This is what you don’t want.

3. Got a front loader? Fuggedabodit. Too risky. Handwash instead.

4. You need just the tiniest bit of baby shampoo. A capful, tops.

5. What you do need is a lot of water.

6. Which means don’t stuff the machine with sweaters. One at a time, maybe two. Too many will cause the fibers to rub up against one another, which you do not want (see #2).

7. If you want to, add a little conditioner during the rinse cycle. Will soften up beautifully.

8. Makes sense, right? I mean wool is hair. Why wouldn’t you use hair products?

9. Would my hair shrink if I put it in a machine that agitated, I wonder?

10. If you don’t have a machine, wash your knitwear in a sink. Just let it soak a little while in some water with baby shampoo.

11. You will feel the urge to swill and swish lots. Resist this.

12. Don’t wring out, or you run the risk of misshaping it. Pressing is okay to get the bulk of the water out.

13. Some roll it into a dry towel and press the water out; others let it sit in a kitchen colander to drain. Yes, a colander.

14. Colander is a surprisingly difficult word to spell, actually.

15. To dry, let it lie flat on a dry towel. Don’t hang, or it gets all bent out of shape.

There’s a great how-to about washing wool sweaters over at fuzzygalore. But what I’m here to tell you is that it works. Surprisingly, shockingly, I have washed wool sweaters with baby shampoo, I have washed them in the washing machine, and it works beautifully. I started small — one sweater that I didn’t much care about. One of Blair’s that I never especially liked. And I’m telling you, it worked.

Mind you, I’m talking about wool here, not rayon or suede or leather or other clothing labeled “dry clean only.” Nor am I talking about garments with lots of structure, like suits. Though suits, it should be said, probably don’t need to be dry cleaned nearly as often as most people dry clean them. Which is good, because, you know, neurotoxins.

Back to that day in fall, 2006. As I left the party, I felt so pleased. Not only because I felt like I’d bridged some kind of gap — you got your knitwear in my Muck boots! And you got your mud season in my polo match! — but also I marveled about this simple fact: you just never know where earth-friendly, money-saving tips are going to come from.  They don’t always come from the tahini potlucks; sometimes, they even come from polo-watching fashionistas in Gucci kitten heels.

Got other recommendations for keeping stuff out of the dry cleaners? Lemme know.

Oh, and that down vest? Just for the record, I’m wearing it now.