If clothes maketh the man, I can’t help but wonder how I’ve madeth it this far.
“I have three major issues,” I said to the ‘image consultant’.
She was offering a first interview for free to busy professionals, like me, in desperate need of a makeover. Her website promised she could help “create a signature style for all areas of life”, whether a “shabby-chic look” (for weekends, on the couch, drafting contracts), “a suave inner-city office style” (for wasting valuable contract-drafting time talking to clients who ask ‘how are you going with that contract’) “or anything in between” (stuck in traffic, wishing for time away on a desert island – so I could get through my backlog of contracts).
“Firstly, I’m cheap,” I said.
“I see.”
“No, really I am.”
“I know, I can see.”
“Oh. I see. Second, I don’t have time to go shopping.”
“You’ve made time to see me.”
“Only because you’re shopping your time pro bono,” I said. “Third, when I do manage to go shopping, I only ever really feel comfortable shopping in op shops.”
“Buying your clothes?”
“Crockery actually.”
“Okay, let’s have a look. What have you brought in?”
As instructed by email, I’d brought in an array of items from my wardrobe and dressed in “something you would wear to an important client meeting”.
I stood before the full-length mirror.
“Is this your best suit?”
“Only suit.”
“It doesn’t fit you,” she said. “And how is it that a lawyer can have only one suit?”
I told an elaborate tale of suit-shopping gone wrong … a suit purchased and adjusted to fit … a change of heart … a return to the retailer, who offered a reluctant exchange.
“But they washed their hands of me after that, and refused to sell me anything else, or service my trousers. They still need adjusting,” I said hitching them up. “But they used to fit better.”
I went on, telling another elaborate tale of weight-loss from child-rearing gone wrong … my son … barely a year old … barely able to string together an hour of sleep.
“I think it’s genetic,” I said. “It’s like he stirs for a timesheet every six-minutes. So, I’ve quit drinking – to increase my energy – and dropped inches off my waist.”
But the stylist had stopped listening, and moved on to the rest of my clothes.
“This stuff is so cheap I don’t want to touch it … My god, how pedestrian … And this shirt: the colour of this shirt makes you look yellow.”
“Actually, I think I have gone a bit yellow,” I said. “It’s become something of a permanent tinge. I blame lack of sleep.”
“Well it can’t be your liver,” she said holding up colour charts to my face. “Hmmm … I think we’d better run a few tests.”
She rifled through a folder.
“Don’t worry,” she said, giving me some sort of Myers-Briggs questionnaire. “This isn’t some sort of Myers-Briggs questionnaire.”
Using word-prompts, the questionnaire sought to diagnose my desired style. Not feeling drawn to words like ‘sensible’, ‘mature’, or ‘uncomplicated’, I decided I might like to be more ‘high-impact’. Who wouldn’t? Whatever it means.
“That means you’re seeking a more ‘innovative’ style.”
She took me through a picture-book with examples of clothes I would never wear: “suits from the catwalk”, “excessive accessories” and “a moccasin teamed in an unexpected way”.
“What do you think?” she said.
“It seems silly,” I said giggling a little. “I just never thought of having a stylist before.”
“Think of me as like an accountant or financial adviser,” she said. “Except my main focus is your most important asset: you.”
“Hey, that’s my financial advisor’s line!”
We parted ways with a promise to touch base. Meantime, I’ve been doing a little self-help: eating more chocolate so my suit fits better and my cheeks seem rosier, practising saying ‘my stylist’ without giggling, and contemplating the moccasin, teamed in an endless cycle of unexpected ways. Who knows, next month, we might even contemplate buying a new suit.