My newest client was a man who lived in the Village. Men usually came with less baggage, and more often than not, they freely took your advice—sometimes slavishly—when you went shopping with them. The hardest clients were the men whose wives or girlfriends tagged along so there were two personalities to deal with, not to mention the tension between what she thought he should buy and what I did. On top of that, there was the inherent resentment women harbored when other women told their man what he needed. Then there were the wives who didn’t want their spouses looking all that good. I was a definite threat to the security of those types and they vetoed my selections altogether. After enduring a few tense sessions, I made a hard and fast rule: shopping was a one-on-one activity.
Brian Schulberg lived on University Place in a prewar building that was a smart residential hotel before it was converted into an apartment building. It was on the northeast corner of Washington Square Park, just down the street from the arch designed by Stanford White to commemorate the centennial of Washington’s inauguration as president. The doorman announced me and I went up to the twentieth floor. Brian’s apartment had an expansive view of the park, but the furnishings were sparse.
I glanced around. “Did you just move in?”
He shook his head. “Nah, I’ve been here for two hours.”
I liked clients who made me laugh. We had fun together and worked more productively than if I had to endure the company of someone troubled and depressed. Brian’s apartment had what he needed—a leather couch, two club chairs, and an L-shaped desk in the corner that held various computers and components. There were file cabinets along the wall. I assumed that there was a bedroom with a bed. Now he needed a wardrobe.
In short, he dressed to keep himself from getting arrested. Overall the effect was dorky, but it didn’t have to be. Brian was middle-aged, about five foot eight with dark, slightly thinning hair. Good skin (obviously not the outdoors type), and with a slight paunch. The haircut was awful. So were the dated glasses along with the short-sleeve, wash-and-wear shirt, the ill-fitting chinos, and unattractive loafers.
Statistics show that fifty-three percent of men spend less than two minutes each day picking out their clothes. Brian was one of them, unless the whole thing was a setup. Would my friends come out of the bedroom yelling, “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!”? Chances are they wouldn’t, and not just because my birthday was two months away. Still, this guy was peculiar. Why did he decide to suddenly get help?
The way I usually began was by sitting down and talking about why someone had called me and what they hoped to accomplish—a kind of nonconfrontational, “how can I help you” approach, rather than “So I see that you need a makeover,” or “I imagine that you want a wardrobe that makes you look thinner.” I learned that from a friend who was a plastic surgeon. His opening line was always something benign, like, “Why have you come to see me?”
With women, I sometimes started as much as a few weeks before by sending them a client intake form asking questions like: What’s your favorite color, movie, book, vacation destination, actor, actress, car, etc. What’s your best time of day, what are your goals? I sometimes asked them to cut out magazine pictures they liked of all types of outfits and living styles. The pictures showed not only clothes on models but also homes, accessories, colors, gardens, or just about anything that appealed to them, which gave me snapshots of their taste and style.
Men rarely had the patience or interest in activities like that, so I started with some basic questions about their jobs and their lifestyles. Brian told me that he had recently gone through a divorce, and had now met a woman online. They were going to see each other for the first time and he wanted to make a good impression. I held my tongue. Are you sure she’s a she? Are you sure she didn’t send you a picture of Heidi Klum?
He was no wide-eyed boy, though, and it was unfair to be cynical. My heart went out to him, actually. He wasn’t exactly hot, and he was nervous. He wanted to make a good impression and he wanted it to go right. Like all of us, he simply wanted to fall in love.
“What do you do for a living?”
“Computer software.”
“Do you work in an office?”
He pointed to the computer. “I’m here most of the time. I’m on my own.”
No top-tier zeitgeist. “What kind of clothes do you usually wear on the job and off?”
“Whatever I want,” he said. He gestured toward what he had on. “Like this.”
“And what kind of look are you aiming for?” I could tell he didn’t know how to answer.
“How do you see me?”
“As someone who’s pretty casual. But I think you need clothes that are higher quality and look more sophisticated. More of a monochromatic look that will flatter your body and coloring.”
He nodded, obviously willing to go along. “Our date is tomorrow night,” he said, as if it were a minor detail. “So we have to get going.”
I looked at him questioningly and shook my head in disbelief. “Tomorrow night?”
“Right, we’re having dinner.”
“Brian, it doesn’t work that way. I usually spend a few days with a client over the course of a few weeks. We go through what you have, decide what you need, go shopping. The process can take some time.”
“I don’t have time,” he said, matter-of-factly, as if he didn’t hear me. “I have to have the clothes by tomorrow night at eight.”
“I don’t even have tomorrow free. I’ve got two—”
“Look, whatever it is, I’ll make it worth your while,” he said. “I’ll pay you ten times whatever you’d get for tomorrow’s clients. How’s that?”
I looked back at him and didn’t say anything. “It’s that important,” I said, as a statement, rather than a question.
“Definitely.”
I looked at my watch. “Well then, let’s jump into a cab and go up to Barneys right now. Why leave it for the last minute?”
At least he was easy to shop for. He followed me around like a compliant puppy, never complaining when I sent him into the dressing room, nearly felled by a yard-high stack of clothes to try. He reminded me of another male client who said to me, “Just pretend I’m a paper doll and dress me.”
After he suggested a few items of clothes that I rejected with a silent shake of my head, he resigned himself to whatever I picked out. A quick study, he eventually detected the differences between the fabrics, hues, and styles that flattered him, and the ones that didn’t. Brian was the type of guy who lived in washable khaki pants, so it amused him to hear that they originated in India during Queen Victoria’s reign when a British officer thought of dyeing white uniforms with a mix of curry powder and coffee as a way of hiding stains. In Brian’s case, even the khaki coloration didn’t help.
We picked out replacement khakis that looked and fit better than his, and then moved to lightweight gabardine trousers. Canali jackets were next, and then shirts—a few with French cuffs, because they peek out of a jacket and make your arms look longer. We rounded up Armani ties (they should hit the top of your belt buckle), a few Armani cashmere sweaters, long cashmere socks (leave the short ones to Italian bus drivers), shoes by Tod’s and Ferragamo, and a great Hermès watch.
As Michael Kors advised: “If you’re not great-looking, wear a fabulous watch, carry expensive luggage, and wear sunglasses. It worked for Onassis.”
To my relief, Brian didn’t care about prices. I made a haircut appointment for him the next day, with notes to the hairdresser, who was a friend of mine. The only thing we couldn’t fix in time were the glasses. I was half tempted to leave them once we took him up several notches in his choice of clothes, a kind of reverse chic accessory that would stand out. I wrote down the name of a store where he could get fitted for new frames and told him to pick out rectangular tortoiseshell frames. His face was oval and the shape of the glasses needed to contrast. If I didn’t trust the saleswoman in the store whom I knew, I would have agreed to go with him.
By the time Barneys closed, Brian had a week’s worth of outfits. The two of us were hauling out so many bags that we looked as though we had just stepped off a plane with our luggage. When we got back to his apartment, he ordered pizza from Patsy’s up the street, and while we waited I put all the outfits together and took pictures of what went with what. I also gave him a lesson in properly hanging clothes and how to care for them.
“Nothing goes back to your closet if it needs cleaning, or tailoring, and never press clothes without cleaning them if you don’t absolutely have to. It seals in the dirt.” Everything hanging up in your closet should be ready to wear, I said. We finished at ten and I was ready to drop.
“Before you go, what should I wear to meet her?” he said. “What’s my best look?”
I pulled out a tan shirt with an Armani tie and a slightly darker patterned jacket, along with chocolate-brown gabardine pants and Ferragamo loafers. Brian went into the bedroom and changed into it and looked at me. I saw that vulnerability that so many clients have shown me when they put on clothes they’d never worn before.
“We nailed it,” I said. “You look great.”
He studied himself in the mirror on the back of the closet door. “Yeah,” he said finally, pressing his lips together, getting into the new look. He seemed to grow taller and more commanding before my eyes. “It feels good, yeah.”
He paraded around the apartment with head held high, as if he were rehearsing for what was ahead.
“Promise me you’ll let me know how things go.”
“I will,” he said. “Thank you. Really, Sage.”
I put my arms around him and hugged him.
One of the most gratifying and yet disturbing things about my work was that I was there for people in the vast field of new beginnings—before taking on new jobs, going off on trips, starting relationships, and all kinds of fresh starts. I was like a life coach who helped people live better lives. On the other hand, after hundreds or thousands of dollars of the other person’s money was spent, if I’d done my job right, they could dress without me. In those cases, I stepped aside and it was often bittersweet to think about how they’d fare as they went off on their own. While some clients called me back season after season, others were like graduates who left with their caps and gowns, ready to start the next phase of their lives, leaving me behind to search for new clients to help, wondering whatever happened to the Brian Schulbergs of the world.
So I left his apartment with the biggest check I had ever earned for one day of work. I came home and sat down in front of the computer. I was curious to find out about Brian. I sensed that there was more to this enigmatic man than he had revealed on our whirlwind shopping day. I went through listings on Google and MSN, and it didn’t take long to find out.
His small software company was bought by Microsoft in 2001. Despite his no-frills apartment and schlumpy clothes, Brian Schulberg was a billionaire who obviously had everything—except what money couldn’t buy.