Attire

As my friend Theresa will attest, I have five distinct wardrobes:

• Winter (which never saw the light of day in San Francisco)
• Summer (which never saw the light of day in San Francisco)
• Resort
• Weekday
• Real-life 

In Liberia, I have two:

• Everything I acquired in Liberia
• Everything I acquired elsewhere

As far as Liberian women are concerned, only one of the two is appropriate for a respectable lady. Most days, I compromise and go half-Liberian but, like my mother, I find myself more and more inclined to concede defeat entirely. 

How to Go Liberian

Have your half-sister take your newbie ass to the market at Waterside on a sweltering day. Dodge puddles and pickpockets. Peruse hundreds of lappas (massive swathes of fabric). Let your sister haggle in Liberian English. Trek uphill (remember, it's a scorcher) to your preferred tailor. The tailor will ask, "Neat?" and you will reply "Sure..." because your sister is on the terrace and because you don't know what this means. The tailor will eye you and commit your measurements to memory. Have your sister hand him an unknown number of Liberian dollars. Leave without giving any additional information. Return two days later. Proceed to zoot (be enviably stylish). 

The excess fabric is often used for a head-tie, which is exactly what it sounds like. There are no rules for tying a head-tie -- it's all very interpretive-dance. I haven't gotten around to this head-tie business but hope to man-up someday.

There is no pauper-chic hipster aesthetic in Liberia. If you're upper-class, the locals can spot it a mile away.

The whole system confuses me, though, having seen Prada and Harvard gear on a janitor.