At least that’s what my friend Remi tells me. Remi has met no yarn that she cannot see the good in—where I see cheap and scratchy, she sees inexpensive and durable. Where I see fibers not found in nature as a bad thing, she sees easy care and cleaning. Nothing repels baby spit-up like 100 percent acrylic. Where I see fun fur or sparkles and cringe, she sees bright and cheerful and fun. It isn’t that she would say no to some luscious dusty rose alpaca or a big old pile of hand-painted silk; it’s that she wouldn’t say no to some neon orange 100 percent acrylic bargain brand, either. And I would, I definitely would.
It isn’t that I don’t get the upside of inexpensive acrylic yarns—they last forever, can stand up to constant use and cleaning, come in every color in the rainbow (and several that Mother Nature I am sure never intended), and an afghan’s worth of them will not require six months of credit card payments. They are readily available in all parts of the country and can be used in all sorts of projects from afghans to baby clothes. Intellectually, I understand. Tactilely I am just not sold.
I want to feel natural fibers running through my fingers as I work. I want to pet the alpaca at the fiber farm, and then buy the fleece or the yarn that came from his furry butt. I want organic cottons that will weather like my favorite pair of ancient jeans or linens that are sharp and crisp and then soften with use. I want colors that glow with inner warmth and call to mind beautiful sunsets or roiling ocean waves. In short, I want the expensive stuff.
How expensive? I think the most I ever spent on a skein of yarn was sixty-nine dollars for some gorgeous teal qiviut. Sadly, there was not much teal qiviut about 213 yards of a fine-gauge yarn. It hasn’t turned into anything yet—it’s still in a skein, looking lovely. And that might be all it has to do to make me happy—I haven’t decided yet. Am I happy with my purchase despite the fact that it took me three days of petting it to get up the nerve to plunk down the cold hard cash? Even if it never turns into a scarf? Even if there are starving crocheters in wherever that would never in their lives buy yarn made from the undercoat of a musk ox? Yes. And hey, maybe I could write it off on my taxes, since I just wrote about it!
To rationalize my yarn purchases, I have gone from saying, “This yarn is X dollars per skein” to “This sweater will cost X dollars.” I find per project costs to make much more sense to my occasionally cheapo brain than a per-skein price. And with some yarns, if you figure out how much they cost per ounce you realize that you could have bought filet mignon or raw gold more cost effectively. But even the cheapo part of my brain doesn’t object to paying a few bucks for a high-quality item that I know I am going to get a lot of use out of… even if I have to wash it by hand.
Does this make me a yarn snob? Remi says yes (but she smiles when she says it, so it’s okay). I say no—I am not a yarn snob so much as an experienced fiber artist who knows how to purchase the supplies that make me happiest. Snob has such a negative connotation. Perhaps I could be a natural fiber enthusiast instead.