The Fashionista Files by Karen Robinovitz Read Free Book Online Page B

noise when he walks, which, for some reason, always makes me feel that if we were walking down a dark alley and someone attacked us, I’d be in safe, able hands.
    Then one day we were invited to a fashion party that required him to—gasp!—wear a suit. “Baby, I don’t have a stylin’ suit,” he sheepishly confessed. I thought about it for a moment and said, “Who cares . . . just go in what you’re comfortable with.” But he didn’t want to. “If I’m going to be by your side and you’re so styled out, I want to be, too,” he said.
    Thus began his fashionisto conversion. We spent hours in and out of the best men’s stores in the city, but everything we found was cut too loosely for him. We left each place empty-handed, Adidas shell-top sneakers notwithstanding. Todd wanted a more streamlined, sophisticated, European look. For that, there’s only one place to go: Gucci. “Brace yourself,” I warned, asking him to fork over his credit card.
    I informed him that he would be spending a bit more money than he’s used to, but that it would be worth it because we’d be investing in classic lifetime pieces that he’d wear forever. “You won’t need a lot of dress clothes,” I assured him, “just one pair of black pants. Maybe another in blue, gray, or tan, and a dress shirt or two. The rest you can mix and match with the clothes you already have. Nothing is hotter than slick Gucci pants with Adidas and an old T-SHIRT.”

    Rough around the edges!
    He tore through racks, holding up things I never imagined his liking—leather pants, cashmere waffle sweaters, long wool trench coats, three-button pin-striped suits, fitted pants with flared legs, and serious boots with a square toe and a chunky heel. I sat in the dressing room with him, lavishly doting, folding the pants under so they wouldn’t look too long when he finally looked in the mirror, buttoning the cuffs of the shirts, and ensuring that everything, from the crease down the center of the pants to the neckline of a sweater, was perfect. “I like this no-pleats thing,” he remarked. I even caught him turning around to catch a glimpse of his butt and giving himself a nod of approval. Furthermore, he didn’t balk at the $560 price tag on the black wool trousers or the $250 one on the gray-black-and-white-striped shirt. “You’re right about Gucci. If it looks this good, I don’t mind spending,” he admitted. We were treated to (designer) bottles of water and such impeccably good service that Todd was impressed. “I should shop like this more often,” he said. I was creating a monster!

    Streamlined and chic! So
GQ
!
    At the end of the session, he left with three chic pairs of pants, a couple of sweaters, two beautiful button-down shirts, and the most outrageous suit I ever did see. Sadly, they didn’t have the boots in his size . . . in any of the Gucci locations in the country. He asked the store to call—without my suggesting it, a move only a savvy fashionisto knows how to make. Clearly, he was born for this life!
    Now when we go out, I find myself worrying that he looks better than I do! But he always whispers in my ear, “Nothing looks as good as you, my beauty.” True or not, nothing sounds more delicious than that. Yet another reason I love him so.
    This leads us to the last type of fashionista:
    The Significant-other Fashionista

(Sometimes Called the Fashionisto)
    You thought Issey Miyake was a Japanese noodle, and Fendi a disease from the African sub-Sahara, but now you know better. You used to shop at the Gap and Banana Republic, but now you insist on Jil Sander suits and Helmut Lang overcoats. You’ve caught the bug—you’re the fashionista’s better half.
    Although you will begin to acquire more clothes than you ever deemed necessary, you will have to prepare to give up closet space. A lot of closet space. You can live out of a suitcase, right?
    Get promoted. You’re going to need to make more money to support her shopping