A Case for Cashmere (but not for YETI)
The first cashmere item I bought was a scarf from Saks Fifth Avenue in Atlanta. My office was across the street, so when I needed a breather, I’d occasionally head to the men’s department to browse. On this particular trip, I came across a black cashmere scarf for forty dollars. It made no sense. Nothing is forty dollars at Saks, not even collar stays or shoelaces. I asked the salesman if the price was right; he scanned it and said, “Sure enough, son. You best grab it now, ‘cause it won’t be here long.” So, I walked back to the office with a cashmere scarf wrapped around my neck. The only conclusion I came up with was that someone accidentally put the wrong bar code on it – as they say on the playground, “Finders keepers, losers weepers.”
I wore that scarf for ten winters before it mysteriously disappeared. To this day, when it dips below forty degrees, I search for it in vain, but I don’t have a clue as to its whereabouts. I hope when we enter the pearly gates, the Almighty lets us see where our lost socks, lighters, reading glasses, cufflinks, and Yeti cup lids were. Wouldn’t that scratch an itch? I’ll see my loved ones first, then check out the golf courses on high, but shortly thereafter, I gotta know where all that stuff went. Why? Because if I lose one more Yeti cup lid, I’m gonna blow my top.
Can’t you picture some young Yeti executives sitting around a boardroom table? But not a boring veneered number from Office Max, and certainly not a custom piece from Juliette Thomas, oh no, they couldn’t possibly be seen with something so pretentious and masculine, though it was agreed they’d be forgoing years of invigorating intellectual intercourse without it. Sacrifices had to be made, so gone were discussions on the origins of its straw colored Travertino Paglierino stone, the craftsmanship required with the stained bronze inlay, and how strategically integrated LED lights transform this pièce de résistance of corporate art into an illuminated homage to Stonehenge, a floating armada of artisanal brilliance in the center of an otherwise drab boardroom.
All of this lay on the altar of political correctness to avoid the appearance of enjoying a job well done, or, as it’s lambasted between charcuterie boards and Grey Goose martini’s in the summer homes of coastal “elites” - the evils of capitalism; no, they couldn’t possibly do that, though they debated it for months, so they settled on 200-year-old repurposed barn doors from a former dairy farm in Vermont, because, you guessed it, it made the right statement, well, more of an appeasing subjugation to the tyranny of wokeness; that they, as reluctant capitalists and committed environmentalists, are not only responsible for the reforestation of half an acre in Hafnarfjarðarkaupstaður, Iceland, by way of carbon offsets from their G5, they also didn’t saw down an innocent sugar maple to make the barn doors that grace their boardroom; they’re merely making up for the sins of 19th-century Luddites who did by recycling them.
Our penitent jetsetters are ensconced in Herman Miller chairs, their spines erect, lips pursed, and brows gently furrowed as they sip Kopi Luwak coffee from Styrofoam cups. When they’re not twisting the ends of their hipster mustaches, they’re judging one another’s lumberjack flannels. Conner, an urban beekeeper who failed as a hobbyist blacksmith, revels in the envy that his red and black designer piece from Bergdorf’s stirs up, whereas Cooper, the chic nonconformist, dons a plaid cardigan from the Thom Browne shop in Miami, where he gets his $3,000 Pee-wee Herman suits for fundraisers and the occasional feline funeral. And there’s Bob, whose taste in fashion goes back to his college years when he voluntary wore a RAT cap at Georgia Tech; now he’s the butt of every joke for his sweater vests, pleated Dockers, and collection of Boba Fett figurines. Circled around the barn door table is a halo of blue irises and dilated pupils, buried behind oversized acetate frames in thick skulls, all in a contemplative squint as they rock back and forth in $5,000 dollar chairs, plotting their next move as the industry-leading purveyors of overpriced plastic Igloo coolers.
“Alright boys, what do think about selling $25 coffee cups with lids that go missing.”
“Oh! That’s brilliant. Just brilliant!”
“I thought so too. But it gets better, we’ll charge $10 for replacement lids that cost us twenty cents.”
“Again…brilliant! We’re gonna make a mint!
“Are you sure people will buy $25 coffee cups?” asks Bob, annoying everyone as always.
“Listen, they’ve been buying six-dollar cups of coffee for years, so right there we know they’re not Mensa candidates. And let’s be honest, isn’t it worth $25 plus another $30 in replacement lids to keep your coffee warm for twenty-four hours?”
“Why do I need a cup of coffee to stay warm for twenty-four hours? Am I saving it for the following day?”
“My God, You’re A Buzzkill! OK, fine Bob, how about keeping your wine coolers cold for twenty-four hours while you tailgate outside Hyundai Field? Would that work for you, Bob?”
“That’s low, Chad – you know as well as I do that it’s socially acceptable to sip on wine coolers at a Georgia Tech tailgate. Anyway, you jerk, am I not drinking what’s in my cup?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Bob?”
“You said my wine coolers would stay cold for twenty-four hours. Am I just keeping them cold?”
“That’s NOT the point, Bob! And yes, you are drinking your wine coolers. But seriously, what in the hell is wrong with you? The point is, these idiots will pay any amount to keep a drink cold or a coffee hot long past the normal amount of time to consume them. It brings tremendous joy to their lives. And we, being brilliant, engineered an overpriced product to do just that. Now, for the love of Christ, does that make sense?!”
“So we’re marking up plastic lids 4,900%?”
“That’s one way to put it. But hey, we’re giving ‘em a free sticker that they’ll put on the back of their SUV’s.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Who knows, Bob. But we’re getting free advertising from it.”
Back to cashmere. I, like most folks, love cashmere but abhor the prices. $250 for a scarf! $500 for a sweater!!! The average consumer would faint upon seeing the price tag on a Saville Row suit made of cashmere ($10,000+). It’s undeniably ridiculous, sort of like buying a $25 coffee mug that keeps your morning coffee warm until dinner. But there is an exception; if you’ve felt cashmere sensuously draped around your neck, you’d change your tune. All of a sudden, $250 for six square feet of goat fur sounds, dare I say, reasonable? Don’t get me wrong, it’s still ridiculous, but isn’t that part and parcel of conspicuous consumption? Hence the Yeti sticker that’s affixed to every 4-Runner and Tahoe driven by a 20-something male in Atlanta.
I had the distinct pleasure of participating in a decadent sartorial rite of passage this week – I wore cashmere socks for the first time. You heard me right. Cashmere socks are a thing, and to quote Jerry Seinfeld’s girlfriend, “They’re real, and they’re spectacular.”
Before we dive into the experience, let’s address the details:
Made by Pantheralla in the U.K.
85% Cashmere / 15% Nylon
Made with a “Seamless Toe” (a thing of beauty)
Requires hand washing
Hand finished
Ok, now to the good stuff. For starters, putting on cashmere socks is an event all unto itself - one to be savored and never forgotten. My feet, and I’m guessing your feet, had only been swathed in cotton, wool, or synthetic fibers. And I could’ve gone the rest of my life like that and been none the wiser. But I took the equivalent of a Rolls Royce test drive, meaning I’ll forever know the differences between “the good life” and everything else, as far as my feet are concerned.
At the risk of sounding dramatic, it was a heavenly experience. Two things were immediately obvious: first, my feet were not used to something so luxurious, and second, unlike a cashmere sweater, they were going to be touching my skin all day. It’s one thing to spend $500 on something that resides over another piece of clothing; it’s a whole ‘nother thing to spend $80 on something that touches your skin all day.
$80 is a lot for a pair of socks (over the calf are $200). I get it. But so is $400 for a pair of handcrafted loafers. The point is, if they’re taken care of, both can last for a decade, meaning the initial $80 outlay is really an $8 annual cost, or two cents per day. I’m no economist, but two pennies a day to wrap 200,000 nerve endings in the world’s finest wool is a no-brainer. But $25 for a coffee cup – that’s plain stupid.
P.S. Make sure you don’t lose one of your socks. There’s no guarantee that the Almighty will tell us where our lost stuff is, plus it’ll cost you $40.
