Sew Sexy
My sex life picked up a little today. As most people who read this blog know, I'm avoiding deadly infectious diseases by remaining abstinent in Kenya. So imagine my delight when I get to the “stitcher's” shop and discover the handsome, young owner will take my measurements instead of his aged, sour tailor of a father.
Hitesh, the young owner, places style books in front of me and I flip through, looking for a neckline to complement the gorgeous fabric and my physique. “I want sleeveless,” I tell him, “With a short top.” He nods, making notes.
Hitesh is wearing moleskin pants, black and pin-legged with severe front creases, like the early Beatles wore. His deep purple shirt has an extra wide collar with just a touch of flare. Very mod. He's Sikh, but has cut his hair into a spiked messy/neatness.
Hitesh knows style.
“What's your favorite neckline on a woman?” I ask. He thinks. He studies my shoulders. “Let that be on me,” he says. “I'll pick the style for you and it will be unique.” The word “unique” scares me, but I put my faith and beautiful, sparkly-studded fabric into his hands.
“So you'll make the suit?” I ask. “Yes,” Hitesh says, “I'm a proper tailor.” The tape measure slung around his neck is a signifier. “And you'll take my measurements today?” I ask, hoping to sound blasé.
“Yes.”
I'm wearing a v-neck t-shirt, yellow. Faded jeans ride my hips. Hitesh walks behind me and measures across my shoulders. Then he's facing me, his right hand holding the tape to my collarbone, the other stopping mid-thigh. “Is this where you want the shirt to stop?” he asks, looking up. His thumb presses the tape against my thigh. I'm thinking about the length. He waits patiently.
I'm thinking.
But as I look at his thumb, I forget what I'm assessing. “Or, do you want it a little longer?” he prompts. “No, shorter is fine,” I say, anxious to see what he'll measure next. Without disappointing, he runs the tape under my arms and around my back, ever so gently marking my bustline over my left breast. “36,” he says.
Hitesh encircles my waist, again ever so gently, leaving a little wiggle room. “30.” Now the hips. Deep breathe. He's practically kneeling to get the measurement. “38.” We discuss trouser styles and he says he'll put a zipper in the side seam. This requires a second, more snug measurement around the waist. I must lift my shirt slightly. “Okay,” I say, exposing my midriff and feigning boredom, “if you insist.” To make the trousers fashionably hip, Tinesh measures a couple of extra inches at the bottom to produce a flare. He then places the tape at my waist and runs it to the floor. “43.”
He says it will be ready in one week. Next Saturday. I'm already thinking about having a second suit made. And just to be precise, before Hitesh makes the next suit, he should take measurements again. Just to be precise.
Hitesh, the young owner, places style books in front of me and I flip through, looking for a neckline to complement the gorgeous fabric and my physique. “I want sleeveless,” I tell him, “With a short top.” He nods, making notes.
Hitesh is wearing moleskin pants, black and pin-legged with severe front creases, like the early Beatles wore. His deep purple shirt has an extra wide collar with just a touch of flare. Very mod. He's Sikh, but has cut his hair into a spiked messy/neatness.
Hitesh knows style.
“What's your favorite neckline on a woman?” I ask. He thinks. He studies my shoulders. “Let that be on me,” he says. “I'll pick the style for you and it will be unique.” The word “unique” scares me, but I put my faith and beautiful, sparkly-studded fabric into his hands.
“So you'll make the suit?” I ask. “Yes,” Hitesh says, “I'm a proper tailor.” The tape measure slung around his neck is a signifier. “And you'll take my measurements today?” I ask, hoping to sound blasé.
“Yes.”
I'm wearing a v-neck t-shirt, yellow. Faded jeans ride my hips. Hitesh walks behind me and measures across my shoulders. Then he's facing me, his right hand holding the tape to my collarbone, the other stopping mid-thigh. “Is this where you want the shirt to stop?” he asks, looking up. His thumb presses the tape against my thigh. I'm thinking about the length. He waits patiently.
I'm thinking.
But as I look at his thumb, I forget what I'm assessing. “Or, do you want it a little longer?” he prompts. “No, shorter is fine,” I say, anxious to see what he'll measure next. Without disappointing, he runs the tape under my arms and around my back, ever so gently marking my bustline over my left breast. “36,” he says.
Hitesh encircles my waist, again ever so gently, leaving a little wiggle room. “30.” Now the hips. Deep breathe. He's practically kneeling to get the measurement. “38.” We discuss trouser styles and he says he'll put a zipper in the side seam. This requires a second, more snug measurement around the waist. I must lift my shirt slightly. “Okay,” I say, exposing my midriff and feigning boredom, “if you insist.” To make the trousers fashionably hip, Tinesh measures a couple of extra inches at the bottom to produce a flare. He then places the tape at my waist and runs it to the floor. “43.”
He says it will be ready in one week. Next Saturday. I'm already thinking about having a second suit made. And just to be precise, before Hitesh makes the next suit, he should take measurements again. Just to be precise.
posted by Cindi at 6:26 AM
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