Fashion advice from Vidal Suisun

My fashion guru isn't Christian Dior, Coco Chanel or even the estimable Tim Gunn. The person with the most influence on my fashion lives in Suisun City.

In fact, she lives with me. Like many men, I trust my wife with fashion choices. (Mostly.)

The reason for our fashion relationship – where Mrs. Brad lets me know, either clearly or subtly when I need a fashion change – is simple: I have no fashion sense. I don't recognize changes. I resist being a hipster, but don't want to be old-fashioned.

So she is my adviser.

Sometimes, it's obvious. A few years ago, she burst out laughing when I emerged from our bedroom wearing what was apparently a garish sweater. Her laughter doubled when my oldest son called me "Cosby."

Mrs. Brad also occasionally blurts out "no" as I appear before her in mismatched clothing.

More often, though, it's a delicate dance. She doesn't tell me something looks terrible, she just suggests that it's not the best choice.

My workplace dress code calls for slacks and shirts with collars. No ties are necessary, but it's a reasonably formal workplace, compared to my work history (I spent the 1990s as the Daily Republic sports editor, wearing shorts and sports jerseys).

I have a fairly large collection of shirts, collected through the years by trips to Goodwill. They vary in style, although I remain loyal to the button-down look of my college years.

The most common way that Mrs. Brad communicates my style mistakes is simple: "You look kind of pale," she'll say. Or "that shirt makes you look washed out."

I nod. She continues to go about whatever she's doing.

I don't wear the shirt again.

I learned in the 1980s that I was a "winter," someone who can wear a variety of colors that Mrs. Brad (also a winter) carried in a swatch in her purse (I'm guessing. I don't really know what "swatch" means). I can't identify the colors, but I know they don't include yellow. Or pink (thankfully).

Armed with this knowledge, I occasionally pick a shirt that I think is in my "winter" range, then learn that it makes me look "washed out."

I don't want to be pale.

I don't want to look sickly.

I want to be healthy and hearty and robust! I want to look like a professional golfer or a 1970s game-show contestant!

So if Mrs. Brad tells me in the morning that I look pale, my ego makes me refuse to change a shirt, but my vanity means I won't wear it again.

There is, however, a recent exception. I bought a yellow shirt on the streets of San Francisco during the Golden State Warriors' championship run last year. It says "Strength In Numbers."

Mrs. Brad has told me more than once that it makes me look pale.

I scoff, because sometimes, despite what Billy Crystal said while impersonating Fernando Lamas, it's better to feel good than to look good.

Only sometimes, though. Most of the time, looking washed-out is bad.

Right?

Brad Stanhope is a fashion plate and former Daily Republic editor. Reach him at bradstanhope@hotmail.com.