A ghost of its former self.  A facsimile of the original oxford, which is now just a white shirt.  Or is it? — A ghost of its former self. A facsimile of the original oxford, which is now just a white shirt. Or is it?

After a decade of frequent wear, my favorite house shoes have yielded. They were mock Alberts; velvet uppers and a quilted satin interior qualified them as house shoes, but rather than the stiff sole and built up heel typical of the genre, these were softly constructed with suede bottoms. The Italian luxury bedding name Frette made them; (the Italians really are universally good at making stylish versions of fusty classics). Nevertheless, and with little ceremony, they were photographed, then binned. The event made me think though: When is something beyond repair?

I usually preach a mend-and-make-do gospel, from multiple resolings to fearless patching. Frugality, I have learned, can be appealing beyond the long term savings, creating a certain stylishness of its own, particularly when the repaired item is obviously of good quality. I have been inspired by photographs of well-attired royals wearing obviously mended clothing and shoes. I even became a vocal advocate of mending things during time spent in the garment care business (admittedly, this made more idealogical sense than business sense as the margins on repairs of this sort are razor thin). But a limit must exist—a moment in which something silently moves from fixable to forsaken.

For me, this limit is defined by sentimentality. An item to be mended must be able to reenter my active rotation. If I catch myself contemplating a repair to something that will result in a long retirement to some forgotten closet space, I either donate it, or if not suitable for donation, try and recycle it some other way. My wife’s sewing kit is full of scraps of good cloth, salvaged buttons and strips of leather, which might seem a grisly end, but is so useful an asset as to alleviate any shame.

I wonder if there aren’t universal guidelines though—some map for navigating the forked path between mending for reasons of economy and style and the lonely offshoots of sentimentality and shabbiness? I don’t claim the following to be universal or complete, but here are my criteria:

-Under oath, are you being sentimental, or practical?

-Is the item irreversibly soiled? Paint-stained clothing is unusable. If you must paint: coveralls.

-Is the item too small or tight--even past the point of alteration? Promises to fit into things are depressing. Bin.

-Will the cost of repair exceed the cost of replacement? Persian rugs can be antique; a suit just becomes old and, one day, unusable.

-Will the repairs significantly alter the appealing character of the original? This is the test my beloved Italian house shoes failed; glueing all that velvet down would have made them stiff.

Of course one can get lost in ideology of this sort too. My favorite shirt is actually only a metaphysical figment. It began life as a blue-and white bengal striped oxford, and when the cuffs and collar frayed beyond respectability, I replaced them with new white oxford. Then the shirt body became thread bare, so I replaced that with the same white oxford. It is now a white oxford shirt; it is also my favorite old bengal striped oxford. What I’ll do when this iteration frays I do not know. Maybe I’ll have it bronzed.

Farewell, my friends!  I shall remember you like this (or if preferred, like new). — Farewell, my friends! I shall remember you like this (or if preferred, like new).