The 10 Percent Suit

Due to timing (before Christmas) and attitude (Cheap Bastard), one of my requirements for any wardrobe adjustments was that my wallet stay tightly sealed during the process. While Kathryn is not one to pout, I could see that I was spoiling some of her good time. I must admit, I can see the appeal, shopping with someone else’s money provided you like the shopping in the first place.

In fact, having gone through this process now, I am re-thinking the idea of becoming independently wealthy for two reasons:

  1. I want someone to clean my house and make sure there are bits of fresh lemon and fresh lime in the fridge for me at all times (it just FEELS decadent!), and
  2. Hiring Kathryn to do shopping for me, bringing me things that flatter me, look good and keep my time in clothing stores somewhere around my preferred level of nil.

So by Item #2 alone, the process was a success. But let’s look at the additional successes, shall we?

I am something of a creative spirit, though I like to think of myself as grounded (I hear laughing. Shut the hell up!). While I don’t partake myself, I do occasionally hang with crowds who think that interpretive dance is an acceptable way to conduct a conversation. Kathryn did pick up on the fact there are bohemian elements to my life and incorporated this into unifying my body type with an upscaling of my appearance. So prior to the wonderful work Veronica did with landscaping on my skull, I was already looking somewhat different:

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Now… without a haircut and a shave (a state that naturally occurs in about a month) I look like a writer rather than (to refresh your memory):

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someone for whom “grievous bodily harm” is a hobby, despite the happy face bandanna, which completely fails to counter the misogyny lurking within. Who would YOU sit next to on a bus?

And now, exhibit B, still in the thrift shop, still prior to being shorn, I submit:

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A variation on the scarf and hat photo above, and still worlds away from looking like Randy Bachman’s and Burton Cummings’ Bastard Love Child (with a slight hint of Kurt Winter). If you don’t recognized the names, or the Guess Who, their band, rectify that. Immediately. Plus, I look warm, don’t I?

Finally, the last in our sequence from the Hand Me Down World:

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Holy crap! You could take him home to meet the parents. Perhaps even my own. How timely with the holiday season upon us.

Now, this brings us to the coup de grace (d’etat, maybe, in my case?), the point where Kathryn really performed the magic that earned my respect. I offer you the find of the day:

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What you are looking at is a Ralph Lauren suit, navy, merino wool, looking all the world as though it was tailored for me. And it was not tailored for me. For those who missed it, it was determined that I share body proportions with a platypus. This suit is tailored for a human platypus. Now, probably some will suspect that with the encroaching years, I may have succumbed to premature senility and bought a suit that I previously donated. Certainly a possibility, except for one thing: When the hell would I go buying any $500 designer suit? I will have to be farther along the road to dementia, driving in the fast lane, for that to have occurred. Secondarily, I don’t recall ever owning a navy suit before. And it is the suit of the title, the 10% suit. No, they did not knock $50 off. THE FRIKKIN SUIT COST $40! The Lauren shirt and Hilfiger tie brought the total to around $55. With no A, B, C, D, E, F, G, or HST.

Kathryn is not magical.

Kathryn is miraculous.

Me? One step closer to being James Bond.

Hairitic

Now, I have quite an attachment to my hair. Always have. To understand you have to realize I spent 11 years with pretty much this hair cut:

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As you can see from the expression, I was not fond of this. Keep in mind it was the 60’s and people wore their hair like this:

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A further complication came in the form of my father, probably from some sort of “how hard can it be?” urge that has been passed on genetically. I have yet to exercise that urge on my own hair, and I will probably get through this life without trying. You see, with a pair of electric clippers, my first haircut was traumatic, resulting in a large chunk of my ear being detached from my head. Okay, it wasn’t HUGE, but I was much smaller then:

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I do attribute to this trauma my lifelong… hesitance to seek coiffing. Even though many stylists have expressed surprise that such injury could be inflicted with clippers, such injury was, and at a young enough age that the damage is elemental. So when presented with any sort of procrastinatory choice between getting a haircut and, say, a fish hook caught under a thumbnail, the haircut will always lose out to the more pleasant option.

Inevitably, cranial weed whacking was going to be part of Kathryn’s process. She knew, she told me, a marvelous and exclusive stylist who was willing to do missionary work. For those of you who have been following, this is of course Veronica, of Veronica’s Hair Shoppe. Unknowingly, we had a brief association when I served as her bodyguard one tense evening at Joe Kool’s. Here you can see Veronica and I reacting to Kathryn’s manscara idea:

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My head emerged well tended. This was lucky, as Veronica made a point of discussing her avoidance of “clients with attitude”, which I understood as shorthand for, “don’t give me any lip, Hairboy. I’m holding scissors.” She had no idea at this point that, because of the ear maiming, there is no place I am more subservient, docile and timid than a stylist’s chair. Manual or electric, I respect the blade. And on Thursday, in Veronica’s hands, the blade served me well.

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