To Whom It May Concern at the Head Office of Modern Style,
Please consider this letter my formal, official, and long-overdue complaint regarding the current state of your product. My name is Agnes Periwinkle, and I have been a devoted, dues-paying member of society—and by extension, a consumer of clothing—for seventy-three years. In that time, I have seen trends come and go. I survived the shoulder pads of the eighties and the low-rise jeans of the early 2000s, which I believed to be the absolute nadir of common sense.
I was wrong. So very, very wrong.
What you people are parading down runways and selling in department stores today is not fashion. It is a social experiment to see how much nonsense the public is willing to endure before we all decide to just wear potato sacks. Frankly, the potato sack is looking more and more appealing. It’s breathable, biodegradable, and, most importantly, it is a complete and whole piece of fabric.
I am told one cannot simply call up “fashion” and ask for the person in charge. This is, in itself, a flaw in your business model. However, since this blog is the closest thing I can find to a customer service hotline, I will lodge my grievances here. I trust you will forward this to the appropriate department. I have the time to wait.
Grievance #1: The Pre-Destroyed Clothing Racket
Let us begin with my most pressing concern: the deliberate and systematic destruction of perfectly good clothing. I am referring, of course, to the plague of ripped jeans, distressed sweaters, and pre-frayed everything.
In my day, when a pair of trousers had a hole in the knee, it meant one of two things: you were a child who fell off your bicycle, or you were a hardworking person who spent your days on your knees in a garden or on a factory floor. A hole was a sign of a life lived, and it was promptly and respectfully patched. It was a mark of character, not a fashion statement you purchased with a credit card.
Now, I see these youngsters walking around in jeans that look like they’ve survived a knife fight with a badger. And they paid for them. A premium, no less! Can someone please explain the logic to me? It’s like buying a brand-new car with a massive dent already in the side and bragging about the “vintage aesthetic.” It is madness.
Who is the manager that approved this production line? Did a machine in the factory malfunction one day, and instead of fixing it, some bright spark in marketing decided to call the mistake “style”? Is there a national fabric shortage I am unaware of? Are we rationing denim? Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re selling half a product for double the price. It’s a racket, plain and simple, and I for one am not falling for it.
Grievance #2: The Great Shirt Shortage of the 2020s
My second grievance concerns what I can only assume is a catastrophic disruption in the shirt supply chain. I am, of course, talking about the “crop top.”
It seems no one can afford to manufacture a shirt that covers the entire torso anymore. We have tops that stop just below the armpits, sweaters with giant, inexplicable holes cut out of the shoulders, and blouses that are more accurately described as “structured napkins.” What is the function of such a garment? It certainly doesn’t keep you warm. It offers no protection from the elements. Its only purpose is to guarantee a chilly draft around your midsection and a deeply concerned look from your grandmother. Me. I’m the grandmother, and I am very concerned.
There was a time we left a little something to the imagination. Now, everyone’s vital organs are practically on display next to the avocados at the supermarket. Your belly button is not an accessory, dear. It doesn’t need to see the world. It’s seen enough. This isn’t just about decorum; it’s about basic practicality. If I am paying for a shirt, I expect to receive a whole one. Is that really too much to ask?
Grievance #3: The Tyranny of “Oversized” Nonsense
Now, you might think, based on my previous point, that I am advocating for less fabric. You would be mistaken. On the one hand, you can’t be bothered to wear a full shirt. On the other hand, you’re all drowning in blazers that look like you’ve mugged a much larger, and possibly unemployed, giant.
Whatever happened to the simple, elegant concept of a garment that actually fits? A shoulder seam, by definition, should sit upon the shoulder. A pant hem should hover gracefully above the ankle, not serve as a personal dust mop for the city sidewalk. This is not a radical idea. This is just common sense.
Yet everyone under the age of forty looks like a child playing dress-up in their parents’ closet. The key difference is that the child knows it’s a game. You all seem to be taking it seriously, which is the most baffling part. You spend a fortune on a coat with sleeves so long you can’t use your hands and trousers so baggy they constitute a legitimate tripping hazard. You look sloppy. You look like you’ve given up. And you’ve paid a fortune for the privilege of looking like you’ve given up. It is an enigma wrapped in far too much polyester.
Managerial Summation and List of Demands
So, there you have it. A brief summary of my primary complaints: broken clothes, half-shirts, and giant suits. The common thread here is a complete and utter divorce from reality. Fashion, I am told, is art. But when art becomes this impractical, this unflattering, and this ridiculous, it ceases to be art and becomes a simple con.
Therefore, I have no choice but to issue the following demands:
- An immediate and unconditional return to sensible tailoring. I want to see seams where seams belong.
- A federal mandate ensuring all clothing is sold in a complete, un-ripped, and structurally sound state.
- Pockets. Real ones. Deep enough for a hand, a set of keys, and a healthy dose of indignation. In everything. Especially women’s trousers. This is non-negotiable.
- Finally, I demand to know who is in charge of this entire operation. I want a name. I want a number.
I will be waiting for a satisfactory response. Do not test my patience. I have a landline, a comfortable chair, and an entire afternoon to dedicate to this. Don’t make me come down there.
Sincerely, and with great concern,
Agnes Periwinkle
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