Previously on Shapesyfter…
I feel like I owe you money.
Last time, I opened my veins, confessing triggering emotions both mournful and true.
Every man I know – my barber, an old drinking buddy, the shawarma food truck guy, even my now adult kid brother who still posts gym selfies at 43 is waging an internal war.
Most of us are losing. Myself included.
I'm Alexander. You met ManyFace last issue – my alter ego. The son of a broken man. Stylishly overdressed. Spiritually malnourished.
A guy battling his dubious hyphens one day, loving them the next.
Issue 001 cracked open Pandora's box and asked:
What if our war isn't about Winning?
What if it's about learning to Shapeshyft?
Alexander Dolly
THE AFTERMATH
Some wounds don't heal, they hum quietly in the background hugging the wall. My father carried David's death in his chest like radioactive shrapnel. Fifty years of glow-in-the-dark grief lodged beneath his rib cage inching slowly toward vital organs.
Me? I left America in my 40s so I'd never be the same either. Not running from anything –
[breath]
Okay, running from some things. But also toward other uncharted conundrums. The possibility of living intentional, flanked by deep meaning on every side. Creating cool, soulful work outside the walls of sameness. Existing without Instagram's head nod of approval. Totally a life I can dig.
Strolling Bucharest like lost wonder i'm not just one-of-few American Black's transcending his surroundings to survive. Not the son shouldering his father's demons. I'm ManyFace – a Shapeshyfter building his personal world of soulful living.
I'm also the guy who spent 45 minutes deciding which photo to use for last week's article.
Slowness if my jam.
FOUR WEEKS BEFORE DAD’S MELTDOWN Neiman Marcus, Charlotte, NC
Facing off against one of the most dangerous home decor artifacts in the world, like an old western shootout, I reload my trusted Colt .45 for another round.
Me Vs. Full Length Mirror
"Can I make this puffer jacket work?" I silently wonder
Better question
"Can I make it look like I work out?"
I haven't touched a kettlebell since Obama. Neiman's heinous mirror doesn't care.
That sadistic rectangle fires off insults like it's auditioning for Wild'n Out.
"Black Bubble Boy."
"Muffin in the back. Gut in the front."
Full-length department store mirrors sitting under retinal scorching, thousand watt lights spew hate speech reminding me I'm fifteen pounds too comfortable in my skin.
- Canada Goose (Center): I look like I'm smuggling Gimli from Lord of the Rings through the Southern Border.
- Moncler (Left): Hood screams, "trying too hard, bro." Low-key digging the shine still.
- Mackage (right): Maxing out Goth rock vibes here, resembling Jim Morrison's hipster barista from Bed-Stuy.
Shapeshyfter reader – what do you think?
I've successfully dodged puffer jackets my entire adult life – like the last four Fast & Furious flicks. In my mind, they're cyanide pills wrapped in palatable taste. Both puffers and Vin Diesel movies i'm saying. Except Riddick.
After hours consuming Eastern European content over Reddit, Instagram and Youtube I notice one sartorial through-line. Each social media platform sings the same hymn.
"Everyone under 45 in Eastern Europe wears puffers. It's uniform. Assimilate or freeze."
"Great... I'm probably one of two single black dude's in the world moving to Romania for three months. Sticking out like a sore thumb is inevitable. Might even be dangerous in some gang infested neighborhoods. I should probably try to blend in fashion wise."
Was my argument.
On the other hand sameness has a rotten stench, like thrice microwaved mutton. I don't do sameness.
Fine... I bent the knee
sameness won.
THE SELLOUT
Here's the thing about Moncler and Canada Goose –
I adored them.
Back in my Florida – California days, high-brow luxury meant validation. Validation meant survival. Before I realized soulless mega-brands weren't worth my duckets. Before I started caring about connection – about craft-makers, not marketers.
Standing in Neiman's that day, I wasn't concerned about meaningful intention. I only cared about status and survival. Me vs Mirror. Thin Florida blood vs February in Romania.
I caved.
Voted with my duckets on Parajumpers, their Pharrell edition. Opted for something stylish, still shiny but fitted.
Warm. Quasi Luxurious. Fitted = winning knockout punch.
Look at him – warm and cozy. Standing at attention in front of brutalist Romanian architecture.
ManyFace
Oh, I forgot.
Lemme me tell you what happened while waiting for a train.
WEEKS LATER: BUCHAREST METRO
My new friend and confidant hugs my back tight and warm like a clingy ex.
Standing on a rush hour platform, only colored person for miles, expecting to see my fellow puffed-up comrades by legions... Waiting!
Waiting!
Waiting!
Anytime now!
"what's going on here?"
Romanians didn't get the memo. The mass blast echoing... "Wear what's trending. Blend in. Become wallpaper."
Sure, pimple-face teenagers rocking AirPods wore knockoff Moncler with tell-me-nothing confidence.
But the men – grown men of my age demographic – looked distinguished.
Peacoats, Wool overcoats. Field Jackets. Coats flapping large peak lapels and genuine fur. Well dressed men by the dozens resembling Casino Royale extras... each distinct, each weather-appropriate, each immune to the dictatorship of sameness.
There I was, middle-aged and foolish, shimmering in synthetic insulation, feeling like an American sellout in a coat that squeaks while reaching for my chapstick.
yeah... I'm done flapping my gums about silly jackets. We have more pressing issues to discuss like my Romanian stalker, impromptu bff and Airbnb host Micu.
