“The only man who behaved sensibly was my tailor; he took my measurement anew every time he saw me, while all the rest went on with their old measurements and expected them to fit me.”
- George Bernard Shaw
My former colleague, Mel, thinks it’s funny that I have a tailor. Women, she said, should have a sastre—not a tailor. But a sastre just doesn’t cut it for me (pun intended). A sastre does not have the same gravitas, the same quiet dignity of a tailor, no matter if that sastre was also your mother’s.
I am amused by my tailor, Nomer. I love that he dresses in well-cut shirts and pants and that he hardly speaks except to quietly recite my measurements to his staff. I love how he smiles with benign tolerance whenever I suggest another new-fangled idea for my shirts. I love that he keeps my shirt patterns year on year. We have a relationship, this Nomer and I. It’s one of mutual respect, tolerance, discretion and patience.
Like an old friend, a tailor takes you as you are with no judgment and will always make adjustments.
