Beauty and Fragility

27 March 2025

It’s almost unthinkable, really. The finer the garment, the more delicate it tends to be. Beauty, it turns out, often comes with a price—not just in cost, but in care.

Take cashmere for a coat—sumptuous, soft, undeniably luxurious. But the fabric wears thin far more quickly than a sturdy 100% wool. It’s an inconvenient truth. Unspoken, but still… it’s beautiful.

Or Egyptian and Sea Island cottons, with their unreal softness. They’re a joy to wear, but collars and cuffs show signs of fatigue sooner than you’d like. Again—true, unspoken… and delightful on the skin.

A pair of linen-and-silk or flannel trousers? Far superior to jeans in elegance and comfort. Yet the crotch seams? They can split with the slightest strain. Fragile. Beautiful. Unapologetically refined.

Fine leather shoes? Sleek, distinguished, comfortable. But they’re quick to suffer if you ignore the soles. How many men on the street even know they should add toe taps or resole regularly? A quality shoe is expensive—and yes, it demands attention.

Perhaps the most symbolic example: mother-of-pearl buttons on shirts. They cost a small fortune compared to plastic ones—and they break. For a brand producing 100,000 shirts a year, even a 5% return rate becomes a logistical nightmare. Yet we use them anyway, because they’re worth it.

Even the iconic AMF stitching—a mark of sartorial authenticity—adds visual refinement… and structural vulnerability.

And what about a Super 150’s wool suit? It drapes beautifully and feels featherlight across the shoulders. But the knees, elbows, and seat crease almost instantly. It’s a technical marvel. And yet… it wrinkles. That’s the truth. Unspoken. Still extraordinary.

This is where it all becomes tricky: understanding why the finest things wear out the fastest. It’s a matter of education. One must learn to accept the flaws of high-end products. A Bentley costs far more than a Renault—and is exponentiallymore expensive to maintain. It’s a kind of double penalty.

Introducing luxury at a more accessible level, sharing the experience of rare materials, helping others fall in love with exceptional craftsmanship—it only works if the customer truly understands it. I’ve lost count of how many clients—often women, curiously—looked baffled and asked: “Why is it more expensive and… worse?”

Worse in some ways, yes. But better in many others. And thankfully so.

A luxury product—a refined object—is, by nature, fragile. What’s ordinary tends to be robust and built to endure. That’s its virtue.

But the desire for beauty is legitimate. As Yves Saint Laurent once said, “We must live in beauty.”

Yet beauty—true, lasting, rare beauty—has a price, both to acquire and to maintain. And we must step into it with open eyes.

It’s almost unthinkable, really. The finer the garment, the more delicate it tends to be. Beauty, it turns out, often comes with a price—not just in cost, but in care.

Take cashmere for a coat—sumptuous, soft, undeniably luxurious. But the fabric wears thin far more quickly than a sturdy 100% wool. It’s an inconvenient truth. Unspoken, but still… it’s beautiful.

Or Egyptian and Sea Island cottons, with their unreal softness. They’re a joy to wear, but collars and cuffs show signs of fatigue sooner than you’d like. Again—true, unspoken… and delightful on the skin.

A pair of linen-and-silk or flannel trousers? Far superior to jeans in elegance and comfort. Yet the crotch seams? They can split with the slightest strain. Fragile. Beautiful. Unapologetically refined.

Fine leather shoes? Sleek, distinguished, comfortable. But they’re quick to suffer if you ignore the soles. How many men on the street even know they should add toe taps or resole regularly? A quality shoe is expensive—and yes, it demands attention.

Perhaps the most symbolic example: mother-of-pearl buttons on shirts. They cost a small fortune compared to plastic ones—and they break. For a brand producing 100,000 shirts a year, even a 5% return rate becomes a logistical nightmare. Yet we use them anyway, because they’re worth it.

Even the iconic AMF stitching—a mark of sartorial authenticity—adds visual refinement… and structural vulnerability.

And what about a Super 150’s wool suit? It drapes beautifully and feels featherlight across the shoulders. But the knees, elbows, and seat crease almost instantly. It’s a technical marvel. And yet… it wrinkles. That’s the truth. Unspoken. Still extraordinary.

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