Summer Guide: Sell your clothes for cash — but first, read this

There's a good chance that if you shop in Tempe, you hate me. And it has nothing to do with the stories I've written for this newspaper. From August 2002 until the middle of 2006, I was the bitch behind the counter at Buffalo Exchange, sorting through your castoffs, silently judging you and occasionally paying you enough cash to buy a six-pack (but rarely anything more than that).

For those of you living under a rock — or in some of the Valley's classier ZIP codes — Buffalo Exchange is one of many resale-clothing shops in town. It was the first of its kind in this part of the country, opening in Tucson in the '70s and quickly expanding around the state. The same couple who founded the company still own it today. (And they're seriously the nicest people in the world. I met them only once, but I wanted them to be my grandparents.)

Here's how it works: You bring in your old clothes, they sort through them and take what they think they can resell, and you walk out with a percentage of the sales price in cash or trade. How much depends on the store. Buffalo Exchange pays out 35 percent in cash, 50 percent in trade. Other stores, like Name Brand Exchange and Sunset Clothing XChange, pay a little more but, therefore, are a bit more selective.

It's an incredibly simple system. It's also the most uncomfortable encounter you can have with a stranger. But it doesn't have to be. Believe it or not, the kids behind the counter actually want to buy your clothes. Your stuff has to be still wearable, and more than that, still have resale value. Think about it this way: If you wouldn't wear it ever again, Buffalo (and its competitors) is not going to buy it.

If you're cleaning out the closet, I have some advice for you. But first, let me tell you why you should listen to me in the first place. When I started in the resale clothing biz, I knew nothing, absolutely nothing, about clothes. I'd worked at the Gap for one holiday season and sometimes I'd read Vogue. I'd honestly never even been inside a Nordstrom. I even, though it's shameful to admit this, owned a pair of Rocket Dogs. By the time I left Buffalo, I knew how to tell quality clothing by the way it was stitched, the kind of zipper it had, and the way the fabric felt. The kids behind the buy counter may look clueless, but they're not. Buyers go through months of training before they're allowed to pick through your piles unsupervised. You can trust them — really.

If someone as fashionably hopeless as I was at 18 could learn how to buy clothes — and work my way up to a point where I trained others to do so — you can certainly learn how to sell them. As long as you listen to me.

Wash your clothes before bringing them in. As in putting them in the washer and then the dryer. Using a washcloth to wipe the dirt off doesn't count. There are no giant washing machines in the back of the store. Your clothes are purchased, tagged, and set out for people to buy as is. So if your T-shirt is covered in cat hair, or smells like you rolled up your car window and chain-smoked a pack of Parliaments while wearing it, your buyer is going to pass. Also, try to show some consideration for the fact that a stranger has to touch everything you bring into the store. I once had a worm crawl out of a pocket and onto my arm. I once had a bee fly out of a coat and sting me. My good friend once discovered a freebase kit in the bottom of a shopping bag, and there's actually a protocol to follow in order to avoid getting pricked by hypodermic needles left in pants pockets. I'm not sure what kind of crackhead forgets these things, but it happens way too often, and it makes your buyer real grumpy.

And while we're on the subject of hygiene — before you toss your jeans into your "sell to Buffalo" bag, check the crotch. Please. Especially if you just had your period, or prefer not to wear panties. There is nothing in the world more terrible than explaining to a spaced-out sorority girl that you can't buy her designer jeans because they are dirty, and then having to explain to her, "No . . . on the inside."