I followed Felix's Range Rover through midday traffic with the growing suspicion that I'd made a catastrophic error in judgment. The kind that ranks somewhere between "letting Iris cook unsupervised" and "taking investment advice from a Fortune cookie."
My phone pinged with another message from Felix:
"Don't worry! This is going to be AMAZING! You're about to experience FASHION, my dude!"
Those capital letters contained multitudes of terror.
We pulled into a parking garage in SoHo where the hourly rate cost more than dinner. Felix bounced out of his vehicle like a labrador that had just spotted a tennis ball, practically vibrating with excitement.
"Isaiah! My man! My guy! Are you ready for your glow-up?" He slapped my shoulder hard enough to make me reconsider our friendship.
"This isn't a glow-up. It's just clothes shopping."
