Look, it's Armani

He’s an ukay-ukay regular customer. My dad. My mother describes him as addict, but I’d like to veer away from her description to give my dad some respect, although I’m tempted most of the time to use the same word or another that is more lacerating and irreverent than that. He’s obsessed. That I believe is more accurate. And less vindictive.

It didn’t happen progressively. There was no defining moment, a turning point whatsoever. He acted just like that without at least giving us warnings or getting bigger closets to squeeze in all his stuff. I mean, he got so many they could almost displace my mother’s. Sometimes he would bring home a pair of jeans or a shirt. Sometimes a pair of shoes. Other times a belt. We couldn’t tell exactly what and when he would buy next. It all depends on the price and the new arrivals.

And boy, how he turned into an expert. While I can hardly guess how much a dress is, my dad knows definitely. He can even compare prices. Having gone to many stores, he knows that Ukay-Ukay A sells more cheaply than Ukay-Ukay B, but that its fitting room is not in good shape as B’s. There were even times his breaking news was not about the latest political blunders, but the newly opened ukay-ukay store in such and such street, or the on-going sale in such and such store.

“I spotted a pair of jeans, but I would wait for the sale. Its price would have dropped by then,” he would say of the sale, which usually is still a week to go.

“Who said it’s still there by then?” I would be tempted to say, but always decide not to. After all, he has waited for ukay-wide sales several times already and never been disappointed after finding whatever clothing he wanted still hanging invitingly.

My dad is frugal. He’s the type who doesn’t want to spend excessively even if he has the money to spare. He turns off the light when no one’s in the room. If he can tolerate the heat, he’d rather fan himself than turn on the electric fan. He eats leftovers, even those that have been in the freezer for more than three days. He sometimes eats them without reheating, leaving the microwave oven, which he still keeps in the box, completely useless. Shopping at ukay-ukay stores, therefore, is not much of a surprise. After all, they are a place where he could buy stuff usually worth thousands of pesos for a fraction of the amount.

What interests me, though, is not his ability to scour the whole of an ukay-ukay store for a piece worth a high school student’s allowance. My dad has impressively sophisticated taste. Sosyal, if I may say. A pair of jeans should be an Armani, the slacks Louis Vuitton, the shoes Salvatore Ferragamo. And there are other names he digs for, which I can’t remember, let alone spell.

For a good record, 8 out of his 10 purchases are branded. In fact, he buys anything signature, even those that are outdated they look like costumes for movies. I know they are called vintage. And in the fashion world, the word vintage is attached to gloriously glamorous, elegant, and exotic images. But these vintage clothes, some at least, don’t look flattering on my dad. He thinks otherwise, though.

“Are you sure you want to wear that?” I would ask, trying to define what year and season the piece was from. What, 70’s? 80’s?

I know that my dad has taken no special interest in vintage clothing. I know it for a fact. He doesn’t care what decade the piece was from, but he cares about the label on which the fashion god’s name is sewn. And I have come to realize that that’s the major consideration he has when buying a piece from an ukay-ukay store. Who cares if there is an obvious hole on the left leg of the jeans? Who cares if the shirt’s big on him? Who cares if he looks like he’s stuck in the 80’s? Who cares, really?

“Why, this is Armani,” he would say, fronting the mirror with the piece on, then slightly turning around to get a full view of his back. He would repeat probably more than three times it’s Armani or another whose-who name and justify why it was a good buy to, in my opinion, convince himself more than us.

“Look, it’s Armani. It is genuine.”

I get it. To my dad, sporting a signature clothing is sometimes more important than being connected to the rest of the fashion world. And it seems a single name outweighs the purpose of dressing. I would like to take it all from the viewpoint of an understanding daughter, but it kind of bothers me that he seems to overlook why humans dress in the first place. I almost regularly tell my dad no one in the streets would dare ask him who he is wearing and that people wouldn’t mind if it’s not Armani. He wouldn’t budge, and I take that as a hint that he’s not to abandon yet his usual trips to ukay-ukay stores.

Now he regularly receives text alerts from a certain ukay-ukay store. He read to us the message one day, an info-text of an upcoming sale. I can’t believe ukay-ukay stores have advertisements of that sort, but then again, this is the text era. My dad would reply with a simple “Thanks,” devoid of any excitement and anticipation. But in my mind, I see him smiling, looking round the store in search of an Armani. Or Ferragamo. Or Louis Vuitton. Or what-have-you’s.