If you’re the kind of guy who has likened the feel of herringbone to a religious epiphany; is synced up to the rhythms of the Thom Sweeney release schedule the way that millennials were once synced up to the rhythms of Buzzfeed clickbait; and prioritises a lint roller (and emergency rolls) over travel insurance when packing for the red eye, then, like me, you probably know of the puritanical virtues of a suit.
In a good suit, perhaps one done out in a versatile tone that the stitching whisperers have a penchant for, say navy or charcoal grey (or tan, if that’s what your inner Obama yearns for), I concurrently feel the most comfortable version of myself I can ever be — a nomad whose soul has been recovered; myself squared — and someone else entirely, the sort of man whose time many might think is spent (it is not) perusing racks of Persols in the duty free, noting down inspired lamentations and podcast ideas with a Montblanc, and extolling the virtues of New World wines. Staring at a good suit, I begin to comprehend the notion of possibility, as the supple, luscious exoskeleton of fabric yells out to be filled — with grace, with potential, with the poise of someone whose gait leaves behind a trail of rare air.
Sean Connery: an exponent of tailoring at its finest — and in its heyday, perhaps
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