Break a man down into his constituent parts, and you get either the detritus from a Victorian abattoir or a cubist nightmare.
Or you get this:
This is your humble narrator, rendered in two dimensions.
The good folks at Hamilton Shirts were kind enough to give me a peek at my paper pattern. It’s the rubric by which all of my shirts are made, and it means that, in the truest sense of bespoke manufacturing, the shirts made off of this pattern–all of which are constructed in Hamilton’s Houston location–are made to fit me and me alone.