Am I going to seem shallow and superficial if I write about clothing and fashion? Who cares! Let me first give you a brief history of my relationship to clothing.
As a child I wore whatever my mother bought or made for me. She probably selected what I would wear each day and most likely dressed me. Up until I was probably six I was also known for taking them off. Outside. Whenever I wanted to which was whenever the weather was nice enough to be naked outside. I think the postman once asked my mother if I even had any clothes to wear.
When I was a little bit older I became more discreet about it, such as getting naked with close friends but at that point I don’t think it had much to do with an aversion to wearing clothes so perhaps that bit does not belong here.
Around the age of 7 or 8 I began to develop a preference for certain things like sleeveless shirts because for some inexplicable reason I absolutely despised t-shirts. I held onto this for several years, perhaps until I was around 11 or 12. I still remember the first t-shirt I wore and how awkward it felt at first. I believe it was a gift from an older cousin who was going to school at Vanderbilt since the name of the university was on the front of the shirt.
Related to the early t-shirt phobia is an additional fashion quirk I have which is an insistence that long sleeves be rolled up to my elbow and yet I absolutely abhor short sleeves that are long enough to reach my elbow.
My teen years were marked by a more active interest in selecting my own clothing and in choosing what I would wear to school each day. My taste was undeveloped and quite frankly horrendous. It isn’t just that the colours were mismatched; it was the pattern contrasts that were so stark. I remember one day at school we had some kind of ‘ugly dress up’ day for fun and I gave that a shot. I ended up looking odd but far less ugly than my normal attire. It was more of an Amish vibe in blacks and whites which was a huge improvement over my standard attire. In fact if I wore the same today I would probably be mistaken for a hipster sans beard, especially if I was hanging out in a trendy cafe with a breakfast special of avocado toast or a goat cheese biscuit.
I suppose hair falls into the fashion realm but I need to comment on this regardless. I let my hair grow a bit longer in my mid to late teens but I had absolutely no concept of how to style it or condition it. I knew how I wanted to look but my attempts to succeed were atrocious. Whatever cheap shampoo smelled like green apples was fine with me. Then I would proceed to brush my hair while blowdrying it until it was crisp. Surely some part of me knew it looked like absolute shit but I carried on.
My late teens, around 17-18, were a huge time of change for me. Punk rock happened. I had already been something of an Anglophile for a number of years and now I had found something to excite me. Embarrassed as I am to admit the truth, I was paying more attention to the look than the message. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately) there were not many options for me in the rural American south. I had to travel.
Alternative types were known for digging in thrift shops to get their look. I tried this. It did not work. What I really wanted was for it to be easy. You walk into a thrift shop and in the back corner somewhere would be a sign overhead identifying the ‘Punk Clothes’ section. I lacked the skillset apparently. I decided the thrift shops in New York and Athens, Georgia must be far superior to all others so I gave up. Besides, that hair thing. My hair was not going to be spiky and how could I ever be a punk without spiky hair? That clump of dry steel wool just looked stupid when sprayed blue. A food server at the university dining hall assumed I had been the victim of a frat house hazing. Ugh!
Somewhat abruptly I did a complete change of course and went through a phase of finer things like cashmere scarves and lovely silk neckties made in Switzerland, dressy white shirts with dark trousers and nice leather shoes. By default it was a better look for me even if completely pointless. I wanted to be seen as a debonair European but I guess I looked like a pretentious prick and/or a Republican. I think I wanted to be Bond. James Bond. Thankfully this phase was short-lived. Besides, I still had not learned how to deal with the hair.
By this time it was the early 1980s — a decade that could best be described as weird. In the summer of 1983 I moved to London where I spent the next 14 months. There I had access to things hitherto unseen in shops and flea market stalls. Black trousers with zippers in odd places. Studded belts and bracelets. Skinny ties and combat boots. And something miraculous. There was a clear gel for hair you could get for under a quid in a shop — Boots perhaps. I know it was a large chain of pharmacies and this product was probably the store brand. (Actually, Boots still sells a styling gel for £0.99 offering ‘extra firm hold’. What the hell is in that stuff??) What wonders it did to my hair! Slick the hair back with a dollop of that stuff, let it dry and then selectively pry apart the board-stiff pieces of hair. WOW. I think real punks used this stuff for their mohawks or something. I still could not get that level of control but it was a huge improvement. Doesn’t matter. I was a fucking poseur anyway.
With the aid of this miracle goop I was confidently allowing my hair to grow longer and experimenting with dyes and relaxers. I can say with absolute certainty that jet black was not my best look. I finally settled on blonde which I liked once I was able to overcome the mishap that resulted in metallic green hair thanks to the combo of blonde dye and a chemical relaxer. Live and learn! Being called ‘Madonna’ by a co-worker did nothing to deter me.
I was constantly drifting in new directions. The New Wave phase I went through was easier than the punk look, but it came at a price. It simply cost a lot more money if Duran Duran were your fashion role models instead of the Sex Pistols. I don’t think those pretty boys dressed cheap and nothing about them screamed thrift shop, but they were hauling in millions in contrast to my low record shop wages.
Returning to the US in the autumn of 1984 would start another fashion trajectory as I somehow got mixed up in a creative art crowd and further fashion experimentation ensued. Definitely eclectic with little thought given to strict gender adherence, it was a fun era although I would probably rather be shot dead now than be seen wearing what I wore then.
The only constant was that my fashion followed whatever musical style I was into. Punk went to New Wave and then to heavy metal and then grunge in the early 90s.
The 90s were another interesting period. Professionally I landed in my first real job of my entire life at the age of 30. And it quickly became my career and I was self-supporting financially in the City of Angels. Leather jackets and bandanas gradually gave way to khaki trousers and flashy shirts. Yes, I discovered the joys of outlet mall shopping!
My infatuation was Jhane Barnes, an American designer who used computer software to create the most fascinating designs and patterns. There was absolutely nothing subtle about the shirts I bought. Some 25 years later I am forcing myself to part with most of them and not because I dislike them. On the contrary I still find them appealing, if only they fit me appropriately.
One of my early mistakes in life was never questioning my mother when it came to a proper fit. If we were looking at a shirt and she said I needed a large then I bought a large. Therefore, every shirt going forward had to be a large or else, in my mind, I was buying the wrong size. I had no clue that variations existed in how clothing fit even with the same size as identified on the label. I also apparently had no idea how to look at myself and determine whether something actually fit me or not. If I liked the shirt, and it had an ‘L’ on the label, I bought it. Yes, of course I would try them on first, but I had no concept whatsoever of determining whether it truly fit me. For example, I might fail to notice there was enough space inside the shirt for two torsos because I was only paying attention to sleeve length or how the colours looked on me.
I dressed this way and wore these shirts for over two decades with absolutely no clue they were oversized. Sheldon had come on board and bought a few for himself in his size, a medium. At some point when he quit wearing them I tried them on and was astonished that they fit. They fit better. How could that be? In fact I would argue they were still quite large because he had one or two in a small that probably look better on me than any other shirt I owned. He clearly knew more about how to size them up than I did.
Furthermore, I had such a flagrant disregard for proper sizing that I would sometimes buy an XL if I liked the shirt and a large was not available. Hey, it was a beautiful shirt, I wanted it, the price was irresistibly discounted and by God I would own it! I would make it fit!
This rigid adherence to what I thought was my size also applied to shoes and it’s a funny story so I’ll tell it. I’m quite sure I always wore a size 12 since I was a teenager. My feet are big! In the UK that size is an 11 or 11 1/2 and I was probably informed by the sales clerk at Selfridges of this when I was buying the leather Duran Duran-ish boots to match my leather Duran Duran-ish jacket. Sometimes the choices are only in whole sizes so I have always gone with size 11.
Upon returning to the States I continued buying 11s. You would think I would pay attention to comfort, right? Wrong. I was a size 11 because someone on the other side of the world told me I was a size 11 which was true there, just not here. I continued buying shoes too small for the next 30 years. It was only when I started walking a lot for exercise that it became a problem. I fucked my feet up. Bone spurs developed on the little toe of each foot, but worse on my right foot which is probably a hair longer than my left foot.
Sometimes the pain was barely noticeable but it was often excruciating! I finally went to a doctor who immediately knew the problem was a bad shoe fit. He sent me to a specialty shop for high quality shoes where I was measured. I am indeed a size 12. In the US.
Surgical correction was something I was definitely considering although the idea of a grotesquely swollen toe for four months kept holding me back. Miraculously, after 3 years of wearing correctly sized shoes, the pain stopped while I was in Iceland last November and it has not returned.
So, here I am in my late 50s and finally learning how to buy clothes in my proper size. Even though I have long had a European proclivity where clothing is concerned, it has only been during the more recent time spent in Iceland that I began to feel pulled into that design direction which seems to be slimmer and more form-fitting rather than long, loose, and bulky. I have recently felt compelled to correct decades of wrong choices.
Twenty years of living in Austin has seen me gravitating more to the thrill of finding cheap things I like. I have bought shirts I like at Goodwill for $7. I went through a prolonged phase with a cargo shorts fetish phase and patted myself on the back for each pair I bought that were marked down from $40 to $20, with another 50% off for clearance pricing, and with 20% off coupon in hand, I would score them for $8! What a deal, except they often didn’t fit correctly, sometimes were not particularly comfortable, and were simply ordinary and occasionally inferior quality.
The month of May was marked by a decision to try a new approach: to buy things that look nice, are made well, and fit well. I focused my attention on the high end shops with their websites loaded with clearance price clothing. After all, the thrill of finding a bargain cannot be dismissed.
I discovered reasonably priced long sleeve designer shirts with interesting detailing and patterns that feel amazing when wearing them. Much to my surprise, my proper size is a medium and often tailored as a slim fit. No more bulky oversized shirts that drape off my shoulders like some hand-me-down from somebody devouring a plate of BBQ, drinking a 12-pack of Bud Light, and screaming at football on the telly.
For the warmest months (and we’re there now) I have acquired a variety of short sleeve button-up shirts and t-shirts with an ideal fit. There are designers I have never heard of and I am thrilled to discover them.
Gone are the days of loose fit jeans with sagging crotches and cavernous cargo shorts. One of my most adventurous purchases is a white pair of chinos with super skinny legs. I deliberated for days whether to keep them. But they fit. I like them. I’m keeping them and I’m wearing them.
If any of you happen to have a copy of The Official Rule Book which declares super skinny jeans to be the domain of the Under 20 crowd you may let me know. I will send you away with derision but don’t let that stop you from trying.
I discovered some Danish designed socks that are among the most exciting purchases I’ve ever made, particularly where socks are concerned. I have stopped at nothing in this quest for a fashion revamp. My new Spanish-made underwear are a testament to that fact.
And for the first time since my early 20s I bought a belt. Leather. Braided. Made in Italy and it smells like the inside of a new Ferrari. It is made by Frye, another company I’d never heard of. But they have been making belts since the 1860s so I’m guessing they know something about their craft.
Jesus, I should stop now because I am beginning to sound like my grandmother obsessing about her Salvatore Ferragamo shoe fetish!
What a joy it is to admire the attention to detail and revel in the luxuriousness of fine cottons and linens while not having any ostentatious outward display of costly snobbery. No Gucci logos, no Dolce & Gabbana garishness. Just basic down-to-earth comfort and superior quality with a huge price reduction off retail.
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