“I’m so excited about our new Steven Alan shirt,” I told my perman-friend last week. He had just indulged himself in a brand new shirt for the first time in ten months. This shirt wasn’t just any though, it was the quintessential hue of imperial red, featuring micro-sized black crests emblematic of something regal–what, I’m not quite sure.
“When should we wear it?” I asked him. We, of course, meant me.
“Please no. Not this one. I really like this one,” he tried to plead.
I had become quite conspicuous about my master plan to rob him of an entire wardrobe but I was growing tired of his dated plaid offerings and had collected my fair share in the ten months he spent abstaining from fashion. These little baby crests, though, they were novel. I longed for them.
“I don’t ask if I could wear your clothes, do I?” He offered. It was a vision that got a rise out of me.
“Okay, it’s yours, enjoy it,” I appeased him as he buttoned up his crisp white shirt and left for work last Monday morning. The door behind him closed and I proceeded to disrobe. Off with my tee, on with his shirt. The day ahead would prove that the shirt wanted, needed, deserved my tender, feminine touch–with the ample offerings I would provide, it would never feel the same or quite as happy paired with just a simple pair of mens jeans or khakis.
I showed the shirt what it might feel like had I rolled its sleeves up above my elbow, paired it with a knee-length skirt and frisky wedges and took it to the workplace.
I would indulge my nose in thorough pickings with the help of a yellow highlighter while I leaned back against a chair and answered e-mails, wrote silly stories, and gazed into the heart of the very long green leaves growing by my window.
And then I showed the shirt how it would feel had I opted to sandwich it between two layers and treat it like jam, or something of the same consistency. We could grab coffee, go for a walk in the park, to visit its brothers and sisters at the nearby Steven Alan should it have wished. The opportunities were endless and I think it felt warm. In part on the account of wool but mostly in favor of my excellence in shirt-ownership.
Not combative at all, if you know what I mean. Stella McCartney dress (purchased on super sale,) Dries van Noten jacket (purchased irresponsibly in Paris, though I regret nothing) and very heavy, well worth the period of break-in, Balenciaga boots
Finally, I taught the shirt about the magic of metallic. “This is something a straight man will never be able to teach you,” I explained.
“I’m a fucking shirt, man,” it retorted.
And then I realized, trying to win its heart was conceivably impossible. It was a fucking shirt man, and shirts have no hearts. Still, I enjoyed our time together and for the sake of making use of one last outfit, we went to dinner, just me and the shirt, and enjoyed some pasta (shared, really) and a glass of wine (all mine.)
Ellery pants, Rebecca Minkoff necklace, Fendi clutch (taken from my mother who had sometime in the late ’90s seemingly fallen victim to Carrie Bradshaw syndrome,) and Christian Louboutin turquoise heels. The outfit credits are jarring, aren’t they?
The end. Happy Thanksgiving! Photos by Naomi Shon