Super cute in a crocheted mini-dress, Danyel Mershon beams like the bouquets sprouting around her Wildflower Boutique.
"My claim to fame as a 5-foot model," Mershon jokes with me as she swishes her skirt and laughs. "It's so much easier to visualize clothes on a person."
My gal pal Susan and I are flipping through Mershon's racks of kimonos and leggings fresh from Los Angeles to Yellow Springs, a funky Brigadoon of indie lifestyle.
We're on a shopping spree, escaping from Cincinnati to a parallel realm. For me, Yellow Springs is a breather from the mundane world. I've been stopping by for decades, sharing sidewalks with the Birkenstock brigade, the dreadlock-and-tattoo crowd and the women of a certain age who nonchalantly walk around in belly-dancing gear.
Yellow Springs feels part hippie haven, a vestige from the '60s heyday of the village's Antioch College. But in a weird way, the 21st century has circled back to the hamlet, coming to value the same organic food and handcrafted artistry that Yellow Springs has championed all along.
Mershon, a new kid on the shopping block, has already embraced this ethos, chalking on the sandwich board outside her shop: "Friends don't let friends shop at chain stores."
But she doesn't preach. The only other sign in her shop is on a handbag: "I Have Enough Purses/Said No Woman Ever."
Susan and I laugh and move on, fortified with carbs and caffeine from Dino's Cappuccinos and Current Cuisine. It's amazing how much shopping we can do on java and a berry-studded Italian cream cake torte.
At Heaven on Earth Emporium, owner Flower, aka Donna Blackmon, is unpacking her latest haul from the crystal fields of Arkansas. She sells the minerals in her shop, a labyrinth of clothes, shoes and accessories from nearly a century of styles.
As we continue, the incense tsunami flowing out of shops makes things feel repetitive. But the moment I dismiss Kismet as just another import shop, I spot killer glittery-gold spike heels from Pierre Dumas. The subtext in Yellow Springs, I learn, is never assume.
That lesson also applies at La Llama Place, where I think I can't afford the squishy-soft alpaca cape I covet. But at $150, a fair price, it's just down to color: cantaloupe or claret?
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