A sting worse than 1000 paper cuts.
Matt Biolos is known as many things. One of them is, most assuredly, not fashion icon. He generally pairs worn t-shirts with whatever else is in his closet and then liberally sprinkles fiberglass onto. His sunglasses range from overly large to why are you wearing a tinted windshield on your face? I think his shoes still have the puffiest tongues. He is perfect just the way he is and I hope his San Clemente circa 1999 never changes.
Recently, I went to pay him a visit. It was a sunny morning and the alley behind his shaping bay was alive with pleasure. I always look forward to our visits because Matt is not only very intelligent about surfboard design he is also very opinionated and well studied in global/local politics. He could be considered a sort of renaissance man, if hipsters had not utterly tainted the word.
I pushed into his shop and there he stood and he looked me up and down and said, “Did you buy those jeans that way or did they fade naturally? You look like Peruvian hooker.” I didn’t even have to look down to be mortified for I knew exactly what he was talking about.
Three years ago I found a perfect pair of jeans. They were made in Denmark by a fine label, Won Hundred, and they fit exactly, and I mean exactly, right. I wore them and wore them and wore them for two years but I became very worried that they would break down and I would be left without so I scoured the internet for another pair. Unfortunately there was only one in the same fit/measurements as my exactly right pair and it had an extreme wash. Deep dark blue everywhere except thigh and shin, where it turned a very much lighter blue. Still, I was so worried that I bought them. They came and, while I knew the wash wasn’t good, the fit was even better. I hoped that the dark deep dark would lighten a bit or the much lighter would darken or something.
Eventually, I stopped thinking about the wash because the fit was OMG. Women would ask me who designed. Men would stare with envy. And then I walked into Matt Biolos’ shaping bay and, like a very sharp tack, he popped my balloon. I could not lie to him and stuttered that I bought them that way. He laughed and continued to talk about the sorts of jeans that Peruvian hookers wear, the same sort that I was in, and I could not dismiss his description because I knew he was exactly, and I mean exactly, right.
I wear those jeans sporadically, still, but when women ask me who designed, I wonder if they are, secretly, Peruvian hookers. When men stare with envy, I wonder if they are merely pricing my services.
