What Became of Me

This time the distance was short. Petra stopped in front of a small shop and calmly smoked her cigarette. I looked at the shop window. A charcoal gray coat sat on a single mannequin next to a walnut base displaying folded pieces of navy and gray wool, along with a pair of old tailor’s scissors that looked like they had been used for decades. The brass plaque beside the door simply read: “Winter, Bespoke Tailoring – Established 1903”.

An old-fashioned doorbell rang as Petra entered, and I followed her timidly. Inside, the reception resembled a library rather than a boutique. Dark walnut panelling reached halfway up the walls. Shelves held thick cloth sample books. The room smelled of steamed wool, cedarwood, beeswax, and freshly brewed coffee.

We were offered coffee, tea, water or juice, which Petra refused for both of us. “Please take a seat”, the receptionist continued, “Mr. Winter will be with you shortly.” Mr. Winter was probably in his early sixties, tall and thin and wearing a dark gray three-piece suit. He had a tape measure around his neck. “Good morning, ma’am,” he said with the particular warmth reserved for a long-standing client. “The pieces you ordered are almost ready. We could do the final fitting next Saturday, if that suits you. But I see you have a new young lady with you today.”

“You know me, Mr. Winter”, smiled Petra. “Some women adopt dishevelled kittens; I adopt dishevelled young women.” Despite the derogatory remark, I put on a wry smile. Mr. Winter smiled politely. “Well, what can I do for ma’am?”

“My protégée is at the beginning of building a proper wardrobe”, Petra explained. “She doesn’t need variety yet. She needs a foundation. As a start, I want a blazer that can accompany dark denim without appearing pretentious. It should work over grey wool trousers in the office as well as with a matching skirt. It should be appropriate at a business meeting as well as at a café. She is still a young professional. I don’t want her to look … rich. I don’t want her to look fashionable. I wish her to look … deliberate.“

I was pretty taken aback and had no idea what piece of clothing would make someone look “deliberate”, but Mr. Winter nodded. “The garment should adapt to the occasion”, he said and continued. “Navy is right. I’d suggest a mid-weight high-twist worsted. It will take denim without looking casual and sit naturally beside grey flannel.”

It was obvious that Winter was accustomed to discussing the options with Petra and not with the person who would later wear the clothes.

“Two-button or three?” he asked.

“Two”, said Petra.

“Natural shoulder?”

Petra glanced at me.

“Natural. Nothing fashionable.”

“If the thing behaves well”, Petra continued, “I’ll commission matching trousers and skirt later. And an item like you are doing now for my other protégée. Not immediately though. But please take all measurements straight away. Then I can commission other items later by phone.”

There it was again, the phrase “If the thing behaves well.” How long would I be under observation? And what exactly did “behave” mean?

It all went too fast and too far for me. I never expected to get tailor-made clothes in my life. And certainly not for an everyday piece of clothing. That didn’t seem to suit my submissive nature at all. Why should an inferior thing wear high-quality clothing? But something in me was also looking forward to it. I was confused.

Mr. Winter took me into a side room. “Please remove your outer clothing so I can take the correct measurements.” A few minutes later I stood in front of him in nothing but my underwear. Strangely, I felt more exposed than before when I was completely naked. Maybe because this time someone would look objectively at my proportions, catalogue my body, establish its specifications.

“Please walk slowly and naturally to the corner and then return. Very good, thank you. Again, please.” Then Mr. Winter gestured toward the fitting platform, a low wooden dais before three tall mirrors. “If you would step up, please.”

The tape settled gently around my neck.

“Neck.” Mr. Winter whispered to himself and wrote numbers into a notebook without even looking.

“Shoulder width. Across back. Bust. Underbust. Waist. High hip. Full hip. Sleeve length. Upper arm. Inseam. Outseam.”

And then came a lot more measurements whose names I didn’t even recognize.

“Jesus Christ”, I thought. I had no idea how many measurements a tailor takes. My body was transformed into numbers.

“Almost done”, he said, but pulled up a stool and took all the measurements of my upper body again while I was sitting down, apparently checking how my proportions changed with posture. The process seemed endless.

“Okay, now we’re really done”, Mr. Winter finally said after what seemed like an eternity. “You can get dressed again.” As I came out of the changing room, he stopped me: “There is a rather modern idea that every choice has to originate with oneself. It doesn’t. A violinist trusts a teacher’s ear. An apprentice trusts a master’s eye. You learn proportion before you learn originality. Borrowing someone else’s taste for a while isn’t necessarily surrendering your own.”

I suspected he was trying to get me comfortable with the idea of ​​letting Petra take the lead first, learning from her until I found my own style. I nodded, but I didn’t agree. Winter thought I was temporarily borrowing Petra’s taste. He didn’t understand that I was already beginning to want the borrowing to become permanent. When I entered the reception room and my gaze fell on Petra’s stunning legs in transparent tights and shiny ankle boots, it was clear to me that I didn’t want to develop my own style. I wanted to surrender the right to have a taste of my own.