I can think of nothing more luxurious than choice — the simple ability to dictate rather than be dictated to. We take for granted that we can pick from seven different brands of coffee makers or thousands of hours of filmed entertainment on a streaming service. I don’t even know how I picked my dry cleaner from the seven nearly identical locations within five minutes of my apartment.
My dad would shame me at the grocery store when I refused to pick a breakfast cereal. “You know, kids in other countries have no choice. They have to eat gruel for every meal.
” I was one of the millions of lucky kids in America who got to choose their cereal. And one of the unlucky millions who was made to feel bad about it. Those grocery store conversations affected how I think about clothes.
I appreciate options when it comes to style and fit, but I am hyper-aware that I only consider such things because I can afford to. Most people in Los Angeles will pull a garment off the rack and accept it as is. Maybe the waist is a little loose.
Cinch it up with a belt. Maybe the hem on the pants is too long. Roll them up.
Maybe the lining of the jacket is a weird color. Never, ever take it off in front of other people. Even alterations don’t offer relief from the feeling that nothing will ever be right about a certain garment.
I took an immaculate Fall/Winter 1995 Yohji Yamamoto suit with tags that I got from TheRealReal to Milt & Edie’s, the venerable 24-hour dry cleaner and tailor in Burban.