In modern America, the ability to dress well has become a rare and increasingly difficult task.
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Growing up, I was often called a nerd or a bookworm, but perhaps the most memorable nickname was: coat hanger.
Influenced by my father, who was raised and educated in Ohio and who came of age during an era when Ivy League dress was at its height, I learned early on to appreciate quality clothing. The basics my father passed on to me included three-button sport coats, Shetland wool sweaters, and slacks that were wrinkle-free and unblemished.
I could recite my preferences for second-hand clothes with such confidence that I impressed the tailor at the Jos. A. Bank in downtown New Orleans, where my father worked and where I spent much of my childhood. One Saturday, while my father was picking out a new suit—and I was probably explaining all the rules of men's fashion—the tailor said to me, “You're a sewing horse, just like your father.”
I had never heard the expression, but it stayed with me throughout my adolescence and early adulthood. In an effort to live up to the name, I never went through a sloppy dressing phase. Now, in my early 40s, I pride myself on dressing my best.
However, being a true connoisseur of clothing has become much more difficult than before.
Last month, I ordered a seersucker sport coat from Brooks Brothers, whose last non-outlet store in the bustling metropolitan area of Greater Columbus closed more than a year ago. (Regular readers of this column will likely recall previous installments in which I lamented that unfortunate event.) So my purchase was made online, but given all the ups and downs Brooks Brothers has had over the past four decades, I was confident in my choice. I considered the purchase a low-risk one, but the following story challenges my confidence.
When the sport coat arrived, I was delighted with its baggy cut and especially the fit, which seemed to require no major modifications—not even the sleeve length. Alas, I was too smug. In my enthusiasm, I missed a near-critical flaw in the construction of this particular garment: there were supposed to be two buttons on both sleeves, but the coat I received had no buttons on one sleeve—none.
Was this a new fashion trend from Brooks Brothers? If so, I was not happy with it at all.
The reality was far more mundane: After calling the nearest Brooks Brothers store—in Pittsburgh, somewhat unexpectedly—I learned that each sleeve actually required two buttons. What I received was the result of some sort of manufacturing error. Sure enough, the “extra” buttons that typically go in the inside pocket of every Brooks Brothers sport coat or blazer only contained one—as in one—sleeve button. Over the years of shopping at Brooks Brothers, I’ve encountered plenty of issues with ties gone wrong and socks that wear out quickly, but never with such a simple, yet disastrous, situation.
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I could have returned and reordered the coat, but I decided it might be best to try to fix the problem: on the advice of a gentleman I had spoken to in Pittsburgh, I decided to call Brooks Brothers stores on the East Coast in search of a pair of spare buttons. I was prepared to spend the day traveling the East Coast, but to my pleasant surprise, I soon ran into a helpful store manager,
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