Tommy Christopher: Yes, My Makeover Was Awesome, Thanks

by Tommy Christopher | 5:26 pm, November 17th, 2010

[A little backstory: Tommy Christopher, who covers the White House for our sister site Mediaite, is the worst-dressed person in the White House press corps. We couldn't stand the thought of him interviewing the president in polyester, so we teamed up with Saks Fifth Avenue to help him update his look. You can check out the Before and After shots here And now, his take on the process.]

One of the great pitfalls in life is the human tendency to rationalize our own shortcomings. You know how it goes, “I’m not crazy, I’m eccentric,” or “I’m not creepy, I’m at least 51 yards away.” For me, it was “I’m not a rumpled slob, I’m hard-boiled.”

I hadn’t come by my crummy wardrobe easily. Over the course of a few years, I went from being a 270 lb guy with a lot of baggy clothes, to a 170 lb guy with a lot of cheap, flashy clothes, to a 200 lb guy with, like, two pair of pants that fit. Coupled with an austere budget and a hellish travel routine, going with that particular flow was the path of least resistance.

So, when Styleite suggested a style makeover, I had to decide if being the most poorly-dressed person in the White House press corps was really the trait I wanted to cling to. Sure, my 10-year-old Thom McCann‘s had a hint of ink-stained romance to them, and were comfy to boot, but the pebble rattling in the heel was also a bit of a distraction. OK, I’m in.

Luckily, I had a heart attack shortly after this makeover was planned, so I was able to drop about 15 pounds, which meant I wouldn’t be married to fat guy clothes forever.

My first visit to Saks Fifth Avenue just happened to be my first trip out after the heart attack, which was a nice way to rejoin society. Eric Jennings, the store’s fashion director, had instructed me to dress as I normally would to a White House briefing. I have to admit, I took shameless glee in the horror my Wal-Mart slacks and short-sleeved Costco shirt evoked in him, but he admirably maintained his composure. I tried to horrify him some more with tales of the clothes I’d left home, but he was unflappable.

Jennings did a really great job in selecting clothes for me, in that he picked stuff that I never would have. He also explained how the various pieces could interchange, a marked departure from my usual three-outfit repertoire, and that I didn’t have to match my shirt to my belt “like Garanimals.”

Dammit, I was hoping there would be some kind of Garanimal-esque system. Apparently not.

I have to admit to getting a yokel charge out of the fact that all these clothes were going to be tailored just for me! Sure, it feels great to look good, but even better to have clothes that actually fit properly. I also got way too excited about the most awesome undershirts in the world (I call them “hunnyshirts,” because they cost a hundred dollars each). Equmen undershirts fit like a second skin, and they keep you ice-cream cool when it’s hot, yet somehow, they creepily know when you want to be warmer.

I went back a few weeks later to pick up the new clothes, and to take the “after” pictures. This included a visit to the John Allan dude-spa, where I acquired an actual hairstyle, and what I prefer to call a bro-nicure. My stupid heart attack crapola meant that I had to settle for a cup of tea, rather than the bourbon that the spa offers as well.

While being king for a day was great, the best part was the astonished kudos I got when I successfully picked out my own socks. Now, I can look forward to my next White House briefing, secure in the knowledge that if the camera happens to catch me in full-length, I won’t look like I live in a van down by the river.