I am not a fashionable man. I spend my life walking around in an exoskeleton made of baseball hats and old flannels. Occasionally, deep inside my dumpy cocoon, I hear muffled rumors about other ways to live — that there is, for instance, a whole elaborate universe revolving around what aficionados call “menswear,” different from the broad clothing category of “men’s wear”: guys who spend their lives, and paychecks, obsessing like Talmudic scholars over exotic fabrics, buttons, shirts, hats.
For me, learning about this raised a few obvious questions: For instance, “Why?” and “What on Earth?” and also “Huh?” What could possibly explain this growing contingent of men who spend hours online discussing artisanal, small-batch, outrageously expensive clothing? Can anyone participate? If I were to slip into a pair of $600 shorts, would it instantly change my life? How much men would a menswear wear if a menswear could wear men?
I called Jonah Weiner, a fellow writer for this magazine and a co-founder of the popular style newsletter “Blackbird Spyplane.” Jonah talks about fashion like Chef Boyardee talks about mamma mia cans of noodles. He told me about all kinds of wizardry: a Japanese brand that makes natural fibers seem like synthetic fibers; another Japanese brand that recreates arcane military footwear in lavish detail. When I asked Jonah what he was wearing right now, his answer did not disappoint: “A platonic ideal of heavyweight cotton black drawstring sweatpants,” he said, along with a sweater knit out of cotton and mohair. Although he acknowledged that this might seem over the top for a regular Tuesday morning — the word “mohair,” in particular, tends to get eyes rolling — Jonah said something that I would later see frequently in menswear discussions. Truly special clothing is not just about luxury for the sake of luxury; it is, like all great art, a way to get us to pay attention. In our disembodied world of avatars and glass screens and disposable, mass-produced clothing, a beautiful garment can allow us to remember our bodies, to think about how we sit in the world, to take real pleasure in dailiness. Jonah urged me to go see some menswear for myself — to feel the fabrics, try things on, see what happens.
So I went down to C’H’C’M’, a Manhattan shop that is legendary on the menswear forums. I actually walked past it twice before I noticed the entrance — a nondescript door down a narrow set of stairs. Inside, it was small and plain. Stark white floor. Techno music. It felt like an art gallery; everything was obviously expensive and rare and important, even if I couldn’t say exactly why. I walked around pinching fabrics, scrutinizing colors, gawking at price tags. Some pieces were so outlandish I couldn’t imagine putting them onto a human body as boring as mine.
After a few minutes, however, something changed. Menswear and I started to creep toward each other. Riffling through a rack, I saw a flannel — my native sartorial language — but the material was unlike any of my flannels at home: It was thick and generous and meaty, like an Italian grandmother’s handmade ravioli. I could absolutely wear that, I thought. Then I saw a light billowy windbreaker covered with bright flowers — something I would never put on. But what if I should? What if I am actually a different human being than I ever suspected?
For the next 90 minutes or so, I zoomed around the narrow store, back and forth, trying things on, comparing incrementally different shirts and hats. One coat made me feel like a Russian novelist. Another made me feel like a secretly fascinating cabby. I could feel myself becoming obsessive, frenzied. I was starting to covet things. What if one of these garments held the key to my soul but I hesitated, and then some other guy came along and snatched it off the rack?
Eventually I zeroed in on an Australian brand called MAN-TLE. (I have no idea what the hyphen in the middle is up to; menswear brands love to sprinkle punctuation marks around willy-nilly.) Their clothes were practical and no-nonsense, with subtle touches of strangeness: funky pockets, strips of seatbelt fabric. Almost against my will, I tried on a baseball hat. I didn’t need it — I own way too many hats already — but there was something about this one. It was plain blue, no logo, and it fit my head like an avocado fits its pit. It cost $160. Then I tried on a “Boat Shirt” — a light jacket apparently made of cotton (?) infused (??) with paraffin wax (???). It had pocket openings shaped like giant Tic Tacs. It cost $770.
Surprising even myself, I bought them both.
Wearing these items out into the real world (grocery store, post office, train station, dentist) felt strange. They are inconspicuous luxury clothes, with no famous logo or flashy colors — so I felt sneakily fancy, like a spy with a dangerous secret.
But then people started making comments.
“That hat makes you look rich,” said my wife.
“Nice jacket,” said a hotel clerk.
I wasn’t sure I liked this. I felt exposed — like a hermit crab who’d exchanged his dirty old shell for a big, glittering, fancy conch, and suddenly all the lobsters were staring at me. I realized, viscerally, that I prefer it when no one is looking at my clothes, even (or especially) to give me compliments.
What did I buy at the menswear shop? It wasn’t just fabric. It wasn’t just beautifully made clothes. It was the curse/blessing of heightened self-awareness. Wearing these clothes made me feel visible to others (and to myself) in a whole new way. That might feel exquisite to a certain type of guy — someone who isn’t already waterlogged with self-consciousness to the point of sinking, or who experiences that feeling in a different way, as a kind of lifting.
But that’s not me. Although the clothes fit my body perfectly, if I want to truly become a menswear guy, I’ll need some tailoring for my mind.
The post I Thought ‘Menswear’ Was for Other Men. Then I Touched the Perfect Hat. appeared first on New York Times.
