One of the great pleasures of being a man is wearing a good suit. But it's a pleasure lost on me. Every time I go to buy one, I tell myself this suit will be different. I'll finally look debonair like the actor Franchot Tone. Or powerful like de Gaulle. But then I try it on, look in the mirror, and who do I see? Woody Allen. Even if I take off my nerdy glasses, the problem persists. On a good day I might hope for the charm of Matthew Broderick. But Broderick is a towering five foot eight. I'm five six. I'm short.
Like any short guy who prides himself on his style, I find suits intimidating and so rely on blazers (Balenciaga) and jeans (Double RL) when I want to look my best. Who wants to hear the "No, no, no" I generally get in suit departments. "Best to avoid those," one salesman says as my hand brushes a handsome plaid. "Solids or the more subtle patterns will give you height." Yeah, right.
It's always the same advice for short guys: No double-breasted jackets; they overwhelm. No textures; they make you look stubby. No pale colors; they just look silly. What I wouldn't give to spin through a revolving door in a natty nailhead with a Windsor knot below my chin. Black tie? Put me in a tux and I look like the last cater-waiter left standing.
I got my first suit for my eighth-grade graduation before it occurred to me that I was permanently short, before I knew that buying a suit would never again feel that good. It was Pierre Cardin, a powder-blue cotton blend with shiny brass PC-logoed buttons, a three-piecer. My mother's fiscal generosity ended at the satiny clip-on bow tie that I begged to have. But I felt like a little man on graduation day, with the long tail of my father's borrowed tie tucked down my shirt.
At 46, I haven't actually owned many suits. I've only had one job that required one, in the fashion office at Bergdorf Goodman. But the pinstripes I wanted seemed off-limits. Fine tropical wool made my scrawny legs look like sticks. Classic gray flannels were a joke on my unclassic frame. Rebellion set in, and I bought a shocking green suit from Thierry Mugler — the French size 38 fit me like a suit should. Perfectly. But the joke was on me. Behind my back, my coworkers called me Kermit the Frog.
Though I will never again be the little fella picked last for any team sport, nothing puts me in a sour mood like trying on a suit. I'm not much taller now than I was in the eighth grade. My best fit comes with the dreaded S for "small" after the size. Because not all suitmakers cut true small sizes (and the ones who do sell them quickly), overzealous salespeople will often try to convince me that all I need to do is lop off a few inches from the hems of jackets or pants. Usually bunk: Those alterations can look weird in relation to the pocket flaps and shoulders, as though I'd been Photoshopped into someone else's clothes.
