My beloved Bijan shirt has deeper significance to me so I thought, before I leave the topic entirely, I would elaborate. Here's my Bijan story...
Way back, shortly after I moved to L.A., I briefly dated a much-older man. He took me to Beverly Hills and treated me to Gucci shoes and an exquisite hour at Bijan. I've always been secretly impressed when it comes to lavish wealth, but pretended to be blase on principle. The House of Bijan managed to crush that principle beneath it's custom-shod heel, while simultaneously making this provincial, obviously unimportant nobody feel welcome and even a little special.
As we approached the locked front door I was a little apprehensive - I seem to remember a sign indicating that admittance was 'by appointment only'. I could see some beautiful people sitting around on leather sofas, drinking wine. "Oh swell, now someone's going to call security..." was what came to mind as my date rang the buzzer. Or maybe he just knocked on the glass, I can't remember.
I do remember that it felt like walking into a Faberge egg, filled with Faberge eggs. The place was a jewel box, filled with gorgeous clothes, fabulous flowers and, breathtakingly, a magnificent staircase with furs, sables I think, tossed over the railings.
What impressed me most, however, was the workmanship of the dress shirts, especially the beautifully detailed and eponymous seam tape. Now, I may have been a relative hick but I'd been reading Vogue since I was twelve so I wasn't a complete rube when it came to fashion. Consequently, the eight-hundred dollar price tag did not amaze me.
Looking back now, I think that if I had asked my date to buy me one of those luscious white shirts, he probably would have obliged. I was, alas, not nearly as pushy then as I am now so I settled for two seventy-five dollar t-shirts.
I used to tell myself that one of these days I'll find the perfect vintage white Bijan dress shirt which I'll buy and wear with my ancient 501's, my hot pink Gucci lace-ups, and an enigmatic smile.
I'm not sure if it actually qualifies as irony or not, but it's certainly harsh that I had to lose almost everything for that shirt to finally waltz into my life.