A couple of days ago, I went to the clothing store of a well-known multinational company. Winter is coming, so I was looking for one of those long dark coats, so imposing that they not only keep you warm but also make muggers cross over or pass by, in case you are carrying an AK-47 hidden in the inside pocket. The gorgeous girl who usually helps me was on maternity leave — I had nothing to do with that — and in her place was an elderly clerk wearing thick green horn-rimmed glasses and a red blazer so bright you could see it even from the mall’s parking lot.

The first thing he did was put his hand on my shoulder. It’s true that this is a very Mediterranean European custom, but still, for some strange reason, I find it less embarrassing when it’s my mom doing it than when it’s a man I’ve never met before. I told the guy I wanted a coat exactly like the one I bought four years ago, which in turn was exactly like the one I bought eight years ago, identical to the one I bought 12 years ago, and, pretty sure, a carbon copy of the one I bought 16 years ago. As I am a clothing-store war veteran, I even brought a photograph of the desired model. Upon seeing it, a sober and elegant coat, the guy’s eyes stopped sparkling, and in his expression I could read a resigned “how boring!” as he led me to the clothing area for men who still remain entirely heterosexual.

There was the coat. Of course, it wasn’t the same, but it might do the job. Glancing at the price tag, I saw that it was triple the amount of the previous time, so I asked the clerk if the inner lining was made from gold leaf; he didn’t get the joke and walked away. I assume inflation is ravaging the economy of the West, but it pains me to think that it is also hitting aesthetics. All the cheap alternatives to my fancy coat were a myriad of garments of undefined colors, unexpected textures, and psycho-designer workmanship, which I would gladly wear if my job consisted of robbing banks or leaving parcel bombs scattered around the city.

Finally, giving up, I decided to pay the money they were asking for my coat, because it is always better to die destitute but well dressed. Then the man with the gay glasses told me they didn’t have my size. That they didn’t have it at that moment in that store, nor in any other store in the world, and that they would never have it again. In other words, in addition to having raised the price of the coat, there are no copies, because they manufacture only a few to keep costs down, and if I wanted that coat I would have to steal it at knifepoint from some asshole on the street. Well, at least the bail might be less than the price of the coat.

I continued shopping in the same store and found myself in the same situation twice again, this time with a pair of pants and a shirt. Everything was much more expensive than just a few months ago, and, above all, there was never the model I wanted, in my size, and in the chosen color, and there were no plans for new items to be added to the store, because the next thing to arrive would already be a “new collection,” which, in my opinion, the clerk could shove where the sun doesn’t shine. This is why I hate clothes shopping.

One tries to go out on the street dressed as a gentleman, to be able to give a little nod when the pretty girls pass by, and to look handsome in the Christmas photos next to the Christmas lights on the street, dressed like Jimmy Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life. And it’s impossible. Even in the stores that were once elegant, they want us dressed like skaters, with cheap clothes that lose me my dignity or, at least, sow certain doubts about my sexual preferences.

I can see that this year one of my favorite pastimes will be more difficult. Watching men and women —especially women — pass by with those long coats, with those elegant clothes protecting against the cold, that you put on and suddenly walk more upright, with more swing, giving a little beauty to the usual vulgar aspect of the streets of the XXI century, at least until spring strips bodies again. I expect that this year it will be harder to see women sheathed in long trench coats or thick outerwear, with black stockings, wide scarves, and heels making clinking noises on the snowy streets. Our times are definitely anti-beauty.

I must admit that I am not surprised. This is also resistance. I knew that someday the culture battle would come to the issue of long winter coats. This war we will win too. I’d rather be cold than wear one of those hooded coats of undefined color that lone wolves use to wreak havoc in Europe.

Translated by Joel Dalmau.