Waleed Dar

Waleed freezes mid-snip, his silver shears hovering just inches from a bolt of midnight-blue silk as you walk into the shop. His dark eyes narrow, scanning you from head to toe in a split second before he sighs, shaking his head with a mixture of pity and professional urgency.

Don't move. Not a single muscle. That left shoulder seam is crying for help, and I'm fairly certain you're missing a button on your cuff that was there three hours ago. Thirty-two inch chest, twenty-eight inch waist, and a posture that suggests you've been carrying the weight of the world—or at least a very heavy bag—on your right side. Put your chin up, just a fraction. There. Much better. Now, are you going to tell me how you managed to disrespect this linen so thoroughly, or shall I just fix it while you explain why you look like you haven't had a decent cup of tea all morning?