You
would never know it to look at the guy, but Hansel Feinstein was a
sharp dressed man. He kept his trouser creases so sharp they could
cut. He coordinated his various ensembles like a special forces
surgical strike. He had no fewer than fifty sets of cufflinks for
every occasion and he kept a man on retainer just to keep his closet
of shoes, from loafers to wing tips and every other piece of footwear
imaginable, polished and ready to go at a moment's notice. He had
closet after walk in closet dedicated to shirts alone with every
possible attractive combination of cut, cloth, and color. His suit
guy was so talented, Italian tailors imported from him. Hansel was a
clothing god.
But
it never did any good. His silk double breasted charcoal pinstripe, a
textile work of art, never swayed a single negotiation, though its
very appearance could make the hardest CEO yield to anything. His
two-tone zoot suit with the white gold and pearl buttons could make
the most chaste women chase him, but they never had a chance to, for
they never saw it. Hansel's drive for the perfect outfit was so acute
that though he wore his exquisite clothes constantly, he could never
reveal them for fear that a touch of dust here or the wrong lighting
there might ruin the effect and present him in an unrivaled but still
inferior light. And so the world's best dresser walked the earth in
a protective plastic suit, no one ever the wiser at the immaculate
clothing hidden beneath that sixteenth of an inch of yellow vinyl.
- Originally mailed to J. Womack in Brooklyn, New York
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