By Diego G.

When faced with that narrow alley off of Nassau Street, I knew I could only go forward.  Walking down the dingy path, bordered by a shady fence of pines and a rust-stained brick wall with protruding window AC units, I could only hope a brighter future would lie ahead. And it did. Mecca was the cyan sign and cartoony butterfly icon that read in white serifed letters: Nearly New Shop.

The chic restaurants, designer boutiques, and the cozy liberal arts institution down the road vanished as I climbed a set of rustic black stairs into the charm of Toni Maher’s fashion haven.  A fluorescent orange door opened with a ring, and Princeton itself took a sigh of relief.

“Thrifting” is somewhat of a recent development, according to Maher.  She states–in subtle Jersey twang, complete with a large brunette blow-out and beaming white smile–that fifteen years ago, many teens would just “turn their nose up at thrifting”.  Things were obviously different now as I stood shoulder-to-shoulder with the checkout line. 

Long before then, however, adversity was a cornerstone of Nearly New’s identity.  It was previously owned by the Princeton Day School to fund scholarships for low income students.   Maher, whose 4 children attended PDS, combatted the thought of it closing twelve years ago.  In 2012, she assumed ownership with the mission to serve her community and ensure that–while adding a few disco balls herself–Nearly New was still ultimately Princeton’s.  

With the wisdom of 80 years under her belt, Maher likely wasn’t used to explaining her business model in a curated world of color-coded tags and regulars–all of whom she knew by name–but did so gladly:  “We start from scratch twice a year.  Saturday, our $20 bag day, it empties the store.  I can show you pictures.”

I struggled to imagine the torso-height racks behind me–now teeming with an explosion of color-coded suits, jackets, and t-shirts–desolate.  But every February and August, Princeton showed up for Maher the same way she did for them year-round.  In a city where the average home price borders one million dollars, Maher’s devotion to low prices and local charities (who receive excess clothing) is nothing short of admirable.

She extends most of the credit to her support-system, which includes her husband, who had handcrafted wooden shelves and installed a custom floor, and her daughter, Alexis, who was responsible for their formidable social media presence. (I’d never seen a small business with a Snapchat profile before that day.) Her sons helped set up Square Space, upon noticing the rise of contactless payment.  Say what you want, they were with the times!

That day, customers flooded in and out, gawking at the $5 deal that applied to everything save furs and fine jewelry (the week before, everything was half off, Maher explained).  Even for locals, these sales fostered an infinite sense of excitement.  One regular beamed over a pink pair of peep-toe pumps.  Another perused the aisles with a burgeoning basketful of clothes, which Maher had specifically reserved for her.  

But the only person who benefited more than these women, their wallets, and the newly adopted pieces that day was Emily Battle.  Maher’s right hand woman worked in silence for the duration of our interview, except for the moments when her boss was particularly stumped.  “What’s the most unique thing we sell, hmm…Emily?”  The rugged woman jumped in, her quick, baritone speech bouncing off the walls while recalling memorable days at work and the function of what was apparently an antique lamb chop holder.  Her strong posture was framed by a layer of straight dirty-blonde hair; her tough demeanor concealed a certain kindness I struggled to pinpoint.  And while initially reserved, Battle revealed herself to be much more than just an eager, passionate salesperson.  She credits her job for having, quite literally, changed her life.  

She hopes to serve her community similarly.  Battle recalls a particularly vibrant day when a customer really needed something with a parrot on it.  Luckily, they had just that.  The parrot dress hiding somewhere in Nearly New’s infinite vault had fed them both: the customer with her niche request and Emily, who gained a story and a smile from the experience.

“It’s just a good scene.  I’m in the right place,” she stated decisively.

And that’s what keeps people coming back.  Emily Battle was not the kind of woman with a subscription to Vogue.  Toni Maher did not know that the back-aisle La Perla nightgown was probably worth more than the Chanel shopping bags and 2010 Michael Kors glasses in the display.  People like Maher and Battle aren’t in it for the Gucci watch in the big glass case.  They aren’t glued to their history, however many stories a near century of business may bring.  Their ultimate devotion is to the future of their community, whether that entails new friends or new shop improvements like fresh oak wood floors and Square Space; but they’ll never be without window ACs and your mother’s low-rise jeans.  It was a masterclass in modernization.  Beyond the physical realm, Nearly New is a place of community and kindness in its greatest form: from strangers.  However, beware that purchases may lead to membership in Maher and Battle’s thrifting family.

Before I left, I hesitantly checked out a fashion photography book.  Where I’m from, the unique cover–adorned with a giant, risque leg and blunt description reading LEG–would have never made its way to my local thrift store.  Then also, in my small central California town, buying such a suggestive book might be more embarrassing than buying a 30-pack of adult diapers.

“You got the ‘Leg’ book?” Emily beamed. “That’s so cool!”

As I re-entered the real world of downtown Princeton, my hand slowly let down to proudly display the provocative cover: boldly charismatic, old but new, and quirky.  Just like the Nearly New Shop.  I smiled.  Their work was done.