My new favorite Twitter commentator is @dieworkwear. His rise to stardom originated from his quote tweets of other Twitter accounts, most often male politician-wannabes touting imagery of alpha malehood as their brand of anti-woke counterculture. In these threads, Derek affords these grifters’ audience the highest degree of nuanced thinking they are used to. He does not proclaim to be a bastion of rationality; instead, he is only the messenger of critique. He highlights the fashion eyesores that are often ironically obvious given these guys’ obsession with traditional masculinity; from how the modern male silhouette is a derivative of what could have only been considered metrosexual a few decades ago, how improper tailoring is easily spotted (and fixed), to falsely claimed bespoke suit-making that was easily his hardest-hitting interaction (he contacted his tailor who confirmed the suit was made to measure), the Internet jubilates in anticipation of his impenetrable breakdown of recently popularized hypermasculinized facades that weaponize a hollow, defenseless core. It is important to note that Derek does not believe that clothing has to be expensive. He emphasizes style and respects the artisanship of fashion designers, whose skilled dedication is historically undervalued and especially so amid industrialization.

I have rarely disagreed with his opinions, the few occasions that I was not busy absorbing his kernels of knowledge. I have always been interested in style (and at times couture); my sister and I frequently send each other screenshots of impressive outfits from drag performers, famed designers, and celebrity stylists. I could remember, in elementary school, sketching silhouettes on stacks of scrap paper my dad gathered from work, raised on the extravagance of the Top Model franchise and allured by the multitudes of Drag Race runways. I share the conviction that style is not correlated with cost. In fact, being broke with expensive taste was my mantra for anything culturally and artistically inspired. I also acknowledge the magic that comes at the separation of fashion as an art form and fashion as a wearable possession.

In college, my aesthetics grew most significantly from exposure to drag, ballroom, and fashion houses, in that order. I like to dress in a way that provokes the eye, excites the mind, and commands the space around me. I am drawn to the pervasion of camp and maximalist chic–that clothing should be experimental, expansive, and elaborately deliberate. I rejected the Muji-esque minimalism that, in my opinion, bored me; nor was I enthused about high-end ready-to-wear brands like Vineyard Vines or Tommy Hilfiger whose range of offerings never dared to stray far from the most limited forms. I luxuriated in abundance: in gorpcore streetwear with quilted drop-crotch joggers, in colorblocked sock-shoes with asymmetrical side slit hoodies, in things that POP! I want my clothes to communicate a reimagination of myself that stands out beyond its functional purposes.

For this reason I struggled with classical menswear. I had brought two bespoke suits and ten button-up shirts from Vietnam, expecting to further my indulgence in speech and debate, but my escapades to find bolder menswear items are often fruitless. My proudest moments were finding a velvety maroon suit with a black lapel to match with white khakis for my grad week’s Masquerade, or thrifting a button-down with ruching on the front to accentuate the V-shape physique. But there was a specific failure in acquiring exciting dress pants, or pants in general. My current workplace is not an event for formal attire either, so I just assumed a distaste for traditional menswear as an emblem of plainness–to me, of aesthetic claustrophobia.

I spent an afternoon in the Haight with my friend Minh two months ago. He professed a deep interest in fine arts, having spent a year learning gastronomy at Ferrandi, earned his bachelor’s in English Literature from Stanford, and become a frequent patron at the de Young Museum. I had visited the Haight stores before, scoffing at unrealistic price tags that would strongly demarcate ‘thrift’ from ‘vintage’. Shopping with Minh, I saw familiar names: Yohji Yamamoto, Peter Do, or even some McQueen pieces. I cared about the material composition; Minh was rather focused on the construction quality. He told me to find good jeans by looking at the direction of the stitching and feeling the firmness of the fabric if they appeared unwashed. We paid attention to how patterns (which I had found increasingly unappealing through college) were consistently matched between different sections, and both surprised ourselves when one of the shirts that showed great craftsmanship had an ASOS tag. The only piece I tried on fit weirdly, so I left empty-handed. ‘You should only buy things that you feel are missing from your closet,’ Minh comforted me.

By the time Derek came into my life, I had been primed for a re-evaluation of my standards. I wanted to re-assess my relationship with menswear, equipped with detailed attention, and thus respect, for tactful tailoring. I started browsing clothes by looking at its shape as much as its cuffs. I internalized that highly stylized statement pieces are not some catch-all for good clothing, and that good menswear can manifest more loudly in the sartorial excellency of its finest details. Derek purports no agenda except a comprehensive sociocultural perception of clothing and the role it plays in representing ourselves. Even clothes that are not pushing any boundaries are vessels of social framing; dress codes or the lack thereof are a social apparatus that carry the weight of its historical relevance in (or even preceding) interpersonal interactions. There is a thoughtful observance that complements physical dexterity. This elevates my respect for him to another level.

My friend Alan and I, both supporters of Derek, are gauging the potential of scouting good, cheap finds on Depop. Alan told me that Derek made him realize just how much he had deluded himself into liking the suit he got his sophomore year. I am now acutely aware of the collar gap in just about every picture I ask others to take of me. It will be a while until I have an outfit custom-made. But I think I will find fit clothing in the wild, now that my eye for fitness is keener. Finding new clothes has never been more fun.