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My Father, Myself BY LENOR ROMANO My mother gave up shopping for me by the time I was five. She gave up shopping with me at seven. Was it because I was so skinny that I had to buy boys’ slim pants? Or that I embarrassed her, demanding the stars-and-stripes bell bottom jumpsuit that she considered blasphemous? Shopping for me became my father’s job. Yes! Very cool! The man had no patience, so I always got what I wanted just to get us out of the store. By age 11 I could no longer find what I dreamt of in the young junior department, so I took to designing my own clothes. Snakeskin mini skirts, faux pony midis, leopard fur vests... Fortunately I had an aunt who was a professional seamstress and could fulfill my desires. My dad maintained his role as my personal shopper for expensive things like boots and bags. (We’re talking Granny boots that tied up to the knee, green suede boots with fourinch platforms, a red vinyl raincoat, a leather hoodie...) He had great taste, priding himself on always looking “smart.” In the ’70s, he also had a friend at Botany 500 and was a perfect 40 regular—right off the rack. There were a few years when he gained weight in an attempt to quit smoking, but that was shortlived: he was more concerned about his wardrobe than his health. During college I had a summer job as a “swatch boy” at Cross Country Clothes. The man I worked for was more interested in skirts than suits. I fended him off politely until September, then told him off. I was just 18. I still managed to get my dad a few samples. Sadly, I recently had the distinction of helping my mother select my father’s final outfit. The suit was easy: there were lots to choose from, though he hadn’t worn one in a long
time. The tie was next. His drawer opened with a smell of wood and what I imagined was his Noxzema shaving cream. I knew his ties well: the Countess Mara ones he was so proud of, the rich madder silks. Then I saw his favorite, a deep barn red, but it had stains on it, rendering it unusable. (He was meticulous about his appearance; I wondered why he had kept it.) I dug deeper into his tie drawer, finding wide ties, skinny ties, knit ties... a lifetime of sartorial memories. I selected a paisley, rich in amber, ocher and plum. During his final years, I’d made it a point to tell him how much I loved him. I gave him a card with of all his favorite expressions typed across it in different colors and fonts. He studied it for awhile, and then exclaimed “This is all true!” I gently reminded him that these were his words, the words he taught me to live by. They’ve served me well.
“MY DAD WAS MORE CONCERNED ABOUT HIS WARDROBE THAN HIS HEALTH.”
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