A stylish friend asks “when did you start to develop your personal style?” I smiled. “I was 12,” I replied.
My mother had no interest in clothes or shopping. But my father loved the process of creating a great style. On Saturdays he would take me on his regular trips to his tailor and shirt maker.
When we went to the tailor my father encouraged me to look through the books with fabric samples. If he had a solid navy blazer, I might suggest a Prince of Wales check. We would ruminate on the color of the pants. He respected my opinion.
His shirt maker was old school. He always answered the door with straight pins in his mouth. My father preferred white shirts with his initials embroidered on the left cuff in a simple font. The fabric had to “breathe” so shirts were made of the finest Egyptian cotton. I lingered over the samples while my father was being fitted. Fit was important to my father especially the width of his collars.
My father died a few months ago. That day I went upstairs to his closet. I was surrounded by his beautiful clothing and his polished shoes. It’s funny how a closet filled with clothes can pack such a painful wallop.
Thanks Dad for sending me on my way.