I had to have a new pair of Levi's from the moment I saw the commercial: A couple in an elevator. He glances at her jeans. A dream of love, marriage, and kids unfolds. Who could resist? I had to try them.
Sacramento's Original Levi's Store fulfilled my every sartorial fantasy: a light wood floor, an ultraflattering three-way mirror, and cabinets covering the walls. They gave me a Pepsi, showed me a book of denim swatches, and asked what I look for in my jeans. But when it came to the actual fit, there were limitations.
Carol, the "fit specialist," measured my waist, hips, inseam, and rise (the distance between the front and back waistband through the legs), then entered the increments into a touchscreen computer to determine which of Levi's 500 prototypes was the best match. After a few adjustments and three fittings of jeans, I was as close as I was going to get to my personalized pair.
The problem was that the rise didn't fit, at least not well. I, like many it seems, fell into the smallest rise size - petite. So I went to the only smaller model, the low-rise jean, which comes in only one size, and it was snug.
Carol pointed out that Levi's was "personalizing" my jeans, not custom-making them. Although the company has been touted as a pioneer in the shift toward customization, it uses an existing pattern altered for the customer, unlike a tailor, who creates a pattern for each client.
With all my measurements entered in the computer, Carol had only to push a button to send my order via modem to the Levi's factory in Tennessee. My jeans would be sent to me within three weeks. If I liked them and wanted another pair, all I had to do was call Carol.
Although I left the store with that sick feeling I usually get after spending money on something I'm not sure I really want, two weeks later, when my jeans arrived, they fit better than I expected. I can't afford for them to shrink at all, but they're pretty cool, and they're all mine.
This article originally appeared in the August issue of Wired magazine.
