Excerpted from The Reluctant Metrosexual: Dispatches from an Almost Hip Life by Peter Hyman
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"A man who has not been in Italy is always conscious of an inferiority." --samuel johnson

Despite the sweltering heat and the abundance of German tourists wearing leather sandals (which they still insist on pairing with dark-colored socks, in clear violation of the European Union resolution forbidding such actions), the best month for a visit to Rome is July, if only because the men's dress shirts go on sale at this time. Less gaudy than the French chemise and not as buttoned-up as the English broadcloth, the Italian dress shirt is a work of art, on par with the aqueduct, the basilica, and the Vespa. The Italian shirtmakers have discovered the perfect combination of style, fabric, and cut, creating the sartorial equivalent of a Bernini sculpture—design so flawless that it seems to float, without effort, as if placed onto the backs of men as if by Papal decree. Find me an Italian who does not wear dress shirts most of his waking life and I will show you a traitor to the flag. Even the cabdrivers in Italy are drawn from an elegant swatch.

This ingrained Italian sense of style stands in drastic comparison to what now passes for style in the United States, which has seen a steady downward slide toward uber-sloppy since the antiformalist, hell-in-a-handbasket movements of the late 1960s. It was this era's ill-fitting sensibility, after all, that made polyester a household fabric and brought the idea of leisurewear to the forefront of our fashion consciousness. The current frumpy, oversized American look, which the retail apparel industry now forces us to accept as “casual wear,” may help to hide the results of our fast-food nation's eating habits, but it does very little in the way of dispelling our worldwide image as ugly Americans.

Traveling to Europe makes one realize that while we have a lock on exporting our boy bands and soft drinks and mindless action movies to the rest of the world, the rest of the world at least has the wisdom not to accept our bad taste as part of the deal. It's comforting to know that European culture can weather the onslaught of American media imperialism without yielding to the temptation of the sweat pant and the mesh sports jersey, both current hallmarks of the well-dressed American male, who, speeding along in his SUV, is likely on the way to the mall, where he will purchase a pair of loud Nike sneakers to round out the ensemble.

Saldi! scream the windows of the boutiques that line the cobblestone streets of every quarter of Rome, once the capital of an empire whose conquering armies and political advancements laid the foundation for all of Western civilization. Dal 50% al 70%. The advertisements for price reductions are clear even to those of us in the culturally monosyllabic English-speaking bloc. Ground zero for such bargain hunting is to be found just off the Spanish Steps, on the Via Condotti, Rome's version of Fifth Avenue, home to Prada, Valentino, Dolce & Gabbana, and every other high-end fashion designer at which one can shake a platinum American Express card.

But just as rich a vein for the shirt shopper are the countless streets that run perpendicular (well, as much as Rome's ever-winding streets can be “perpendicular” to one another) to Condotti—the Vie dei Greci, Vittoria, della Croce, and delle Carrozze, to name but a few. In fact, if you can't find one of the smartest shirts you'll ever own for under $50 in Rome in midsummer, you deserve to be fed to the lions (or at the very least, sent on a tour of the Coliseum in the midday sun with a group of noisy retirees traveling through Italy via large autobus).

“Honey, wouldn't you like a couple of nice dress shirts?” my mother asked as we strolled along the Via del Babuino one afternoon. We had just enjoyed a pleasant lunch of finger sandwiches and crumpets at Babington's Tea Rooms, which overlooks the Spanish Steps and the four-story villa where the English Romantic poet John Keats died in 1821, at the tender age of twenty-five (I am aware that drinking tea in coffee-centric Italy is the equivalent of holding a discussion group on the works of Kant in the bleacher seats at a WrestleMania event, but Keats had left us in an Anglican mood).

Her question, asked innocently enough, hit close to home. It's not that I was unappreciative of the generosity or the chance to add to my monthly dry cleaning bill. I was, especially given the dollar's sharp drop against the euro. It's just that, at the age of thirty-five, it feels as though a man ought to have outgrown the habit of what is, essentially, back-to-school shopping with his mother. I hope to father and raise children of my own someday soon; surely being able to clothe myself suitably without the aid of a parent is a prerequisite to this paternal desire.

My mother has been buying me dress shirts since at least the summer of 1973, which immediately preceded my kindergarten year at a school whose uniform required the acquisition of new dress shirts (mainly of the white or blue variety) for the next thirteen years. For most of my childhood and adolescence, the end of summer was marked not by return from camp or Labor Day but by a late-August visit to the Princeton Shop, a local haberdashery that proudly outfitted young men in the Detroit area. I did not look forward to these excursions, as they generally required me to try on wool trousers, school ties, and itchy long-sleeved oxford-cloth shirts, their tight top buttons choking the last life out of my precious, waning vacation.

While this ritual became less formal when I went to college, every visit home included the addition of several new button-down shirts, left on my bed, and usually of the right size, color, and style. And now, on a family trip to Rome en route to my younger sister's wedding in Tuscany, the dress shirt demon had once again reared its collared head. A mother's old habits die hard.

“I don't really have much extra room in my luggage,” I replied, trying to avoid what I feared might become an assault on my independence. My mother has a beat on every good luggage shop from Naples to Milan, and she is not averse to buying new bags to tote home recently acquired goods, so I knew this was a questionable tactic at best. My flanks were weak, and she sensed it.

In addition, my father was not present to run interference, having chosen to spend the afternoon at an outdoor café in the Piazza Navona, smoking a cigar, reading the International Herald Tribune, and checking to make certain that the Italian women who passed him by were still as beautiful as they were the day before. As consistency would have it, they were, according to his reports.

“Oh don't be silly. You can buy an extra suitcase if you have to,” my mother said. “It's up to you, dear, but you may need these shirts. You never know.”

Never know what ? Whether I'll be trapped by fire in my apartment and forced to fabricate a rope ladder out of dress shirts? Or, more to my mother's aspirations, whether, by some bizarre fluke in the electoral process, I'll be accidentally voted into political office, and will thus need to wear a suit, tie, and different dress shirt every day? (Actually, I probably could have gotten myself onto the ballot for the last California gubernatorial recall vote, and I do not even live in the state, so the idea is not completely without merit.)

“And besides,” she added, looking around at the abundance of happy honeymooning couples strolling the streets, “if you're dating, I assume you're in need of button-down shirts.”

While I do, at times, wear button-down shirts on dates, I am unfamiliar with this hard-and-fast tenet of the courtship dress code. This oversight probably explains why I found myself shopping for clothes with my mother, in one of the most romantic cities on earth, while most men my age have secured wives on whom they now rely to help with such tasks.

“Well, I suppose it can't hurt to look,” I said, acceding to fate.

“Okay, if you'd like. We can try Marcello,” my mother said, pointing to a famous Italian shirtmaker known for its detailed needlework. The Via Condotti location, about the size of a horse stall, was crowded and hot. Rows and rows of shirts lined the walls, from floor to ceiling, and one almost needed a military escort to fight through the international throngs and get close to the merchandise. I immediately made eye contact with the tanned young brunette shopgirl, who had the Mediterranean elegance of Sophia Loren and the taut tummy of a Christina Aguilera. She was finishing up with a portly Austrian, helping him purchase what I imagined were shirts that could double as spinnakers in a sailing pinch.

“Man, I just wish I could find a Gap in Rome,” I joked loudly. The shopgirl demurred, and then laughed at my clever American witticism (or just as likely, at my silly American short pants), and we seemed to be hitting it off, at least from afar. My mother, meanwhile, was busy surveying the available selections, ready to pounce if she found something appropriately stylish.

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