Oct 6, 2023 4 min read

With the calendar turning to autumn weather, I went upstairs to the spare bedroom in search of my sweaters.

Last fall, being struck with a mood I can only describe as nesting, I went on a bit of a sweater-buying binge. Using online coupons and special offers, I replaced my tired, ratty cotton-polyester black turtlenecks with wool and cashmere in bright colors, and before you ask how can a freelance writer afford cashmere: it’s possible to buy recycled cashmere for less than a hundred dollars.

So up I went to start unearthing. Making the annual wardrobe swap is a bit like poking through a stranger’s closet; I find things I’d forgotten about. Beneath a heap of dark knits was the perfectly oversized cotton-cashmere turtleneck in the most lively shade of blue. By oversized I mean there’s space in there for a friend or two, but I was so taken by the azure shade I ordered it anyway. It was my go-to top from the day it arrived at my doorstep in November until March when I tucked it away.

I pulled the blue from the dark heap, and shook it once to wake it up after its long winter nap. And there I saw it.

Pills. A billion little fuzzballs covered the torso, the back, the sleeves, and even the part of the turtleneck where my chin would rest. It looked like mini bubble wrap, or like my patio wall when all the lantern flies are gathered.

Had this happened over the summer in storage? Not likely, since pilling is caused by friction against the fabric. I’d worn the sweater often last season, but what exactly was I up to while wearing it? Rolling down grassy hills? Did I sleep in it? Was there wanton hugging I’d forgotten about?

The sweater was an unwearable mess. And so I bought a sweater shaver, one of those battery-operated, hand-held things with circular blades designed to grab and snip off the fuzzballs. I ripped into the package with big enthusiasm; this was going to be so satisfying. I was about to free my cherished sweater of its disfigurement and return it to its original snuggly glory. I spread the sweater across the bed, fired up the power tool and set to work.

With a tool called a shaver, one would expect a clean slate akin to shaving one’s calves, but no. As I moved the shaver across the fabric, the tool seemed to be inhaling the pills and taking the bottom layer along with them.

Instead of a smooth, clean swiping, the shaver was grabbing bits of fabric.

It was eating my sweater.

At the sight of the first hole, a small cut from the rotating blade, I stopped. If I were to continue, the sweater would be shredded.

After the fact, I read some reviews.

“This thing ate my sweater,” was a recurrent comment. A google search of “How to prevent pilling on sweaters” turned up this helpful advice: avoid cashmere.

What a shame that would be. There’s nothing like the puffy softness of a cashmere sweater – even the lower-end stuff I buy. I found a lilac-colored one in my stack. It had pilling, but only under the arms and along the bottom of the sleeves, where the friction happens.

I’ve had my eye on a wine-colored cashmere sweater V-neck that’s on sale. I’ll only buy if it I’m sure the fuzzballs won’t colonize it. To prevent that, I could walk around and never put my arms down at my sides. And never wear it to bed. And absolutely no hugging.