The Blue Armani Suit
The flax and viscose blend suit jacket in a European size 36 has a Nehru collar and drops down just below the hip. It is fully lined with side slits, has a button front closure, and shimmers between a multicolor blue and dark grey. Across the jacket, the stripes move horizontally, while the matching suit pants—unlined—have vertical lines for a stunning visual effect. Two buttons at each cuff can be worn to slightly cover the hand or rolled back for an intentionally cuffed variation. The label reads Emporio Armani and the shoulder pads indicate it is likely from the late 1980s, when power suiting for women was hitting its prime. It is likely from before the 1990s given it reads a "size 6," which in today's translation would be a 0 or a 2.
In this photo, I am wearing it with a pair of skinny black pants and my leather field boots—the ones I learned to ride in an English saddle in. The day I wore them to meet with the cardiac surgeon, I wore the matching trousers and a pair of heeled boots. The trousers don't fit me anymore, at least not without constricting my breathing, so I have since retired them. I bought the full set at one of my favorite NYC vintage stores that has since become too expensive for me to shop in, although I am happy for their success.
The day I wore it to meet with the cardiac surgeon, I also wore my head wrapped—not in a black turban like in this photo, but in a navy blue and yellow Hermès scarf. I remember thinking through the logic for my decision for each garment I chose. Historically, navy suits communicated a severity, a seriousness, often reserved for boardrooms and men. Armani, as a designer, understood the subtle art of suiting.
Covering my head—first bald and then growing out in fits and starts—became second nature during cancer, and then when I was traveling through more conservative parts of Southeast Asia, it just became a native part of dressing. There were times when I did not want to share with the public the color of my hair, its length or style. There were occasions I simply did not have the time to spend blowing it out or fashioning it. For many years I lived in South Williamsburg and watched the religious women of the neighborhood fashion their hair for various stages of life. In the most conservative sects, heads were shaven after marriage and covered by wigs. Other lineages of Judaism allowed women to keep their natural hair, to be covered by a wig made out of real hair in the same fashion. Still others chose to wear turbans, snoods, scarves, and hats. I found the covered head—especially in long strips of fabric making a turban or a scarf—to be elegant, mysterious, and empowering. The question of hairstyle was both democratized and hidden away. It was simply not a question.
The day I was going to consult with a world-famous surgeon about the state of my partner's heart condition, I wanted no possibility of flirtation or distraction around my hair. I had learned firsthand how the absence of long hair changed people's perceptions, especially men's. I was shocked how quickly I was removed from an object of desire and became somebody else entirely—perhaps never quite an equal, but maybe even more powerfully, somebody to be contended with.
Liza Buzytsky | Alia Advocacy | www.aliaadvocacy.com