Miss Sixty was the heart of high school desire — in wearing it you’d graduated to a mature understanding that miniskirts were far too childish for someone who’s ready to have their first kiss outside of a game of spin the bottle. You had the gift of foresight, the understanding that the zenith of adulthood came in pricy Italian denim with a little red stripe of authenticity on that tiny pocket that had no function whatsoever, although sometimes you’d put your bus money in it and then have an awkward standoff with the driver as they held the bus while you scratched all the skin off your finger as you tried to retrieve the money your parents gave you before you went out.