Middle school was a bad time to prove one’s cool. Drawers of Top Dawg T-shirts. Depp No. 5 to replicate Vegeta’s ‘do. And bikes. The most devil-may-care rolled into the parking lot, coveted logos flashing in chrome frame: GT, Diamondback, Haro. I wanted that flash.

My dad — a man who values bargains so much that he tried convincing a merchant that he, too, was Korean — pleaded with me that my five-year old Huffy was just as good if we painted it navy and slap some stickers on it. Turns out, the paint couldn’t unwear the rust from years of learning, and I had outgrown the bike anyway. The bike we painted and polished never saw a foot of that parking lot. I remained uncool through eighth grade.

Value has been one of the challenging skills in establishing a permanent style. Whether it’s a wristwatch or trousers, I want something I’ll want to wear now through old age. I want to care for it, let it share its age gracefully, and carry on a story, of which my wear added a chapter. But I’ve found it’s such a minefield out there. Can I really justify dropping five thousand dollars on a handmade Neapolitan suit? I can make a case to my wife, but unless my teaching salary tripled, I’d have a better shot re-piercing my lip.

Sometimes I regret that I’ve fallen for the world of suits. I can’t un-see the cheap sheen of synthetic cloth in department stores. I seek the priceless imperfections of hand-sewn details here and there. Well, realistically, there’s always a price, for the beautiful land of menswear is unfortunately a land of luxury. The best I can do is use practicality as a compass. Save up for a $1400 off-the-rack three-piece once a year, perhaps. Then there’s always another trick: suck it up and go for “good enough.”