I grew up in the 1970s in East Bentleigh, then a tough working class suburb of Melbourne about 18 kilometres south east of the central business district. The men around me all made their living in factories, on building sites or working for the Government. The standard uniform for both work and play in East Bentleigh was flannelette shirts, blue singlets and Hard Yakka pants. From an early age it was instilled in me that being a man and being interested in fashion were completely contradictory. Attending secondary school at Moorabbin Tech meant having dirt under our nails, greasy hair and battle scars from school fights. Any interest in clothing, let alone any grooming routine consisting of more than velvet soap and a cut-throat razor, was seen as sissy. By my late teens, obsessed with girls and going out on Friday nights, I quickly learned that the time I spent on my appearance through clothing and grooming practices brought great rewards. I began to observe guys from different suburbs who took the time and effort in their appearance. The clothes they wore were different; their hairstyles crafted and styled, things never seen in our neighborhood. Even the shops in their part of town were different; clothing stores and window displays with mannequins wearing colorful, tailored and modern attire. I remember riding my bike to these shops and discreetly looking from every angle and viewpoint for hours. In these parts of town the guys would've wear a lemon-coloured jumper with a baby blue-coloured shirt coupled with green cords. Girls admired their every move. These guys weren’t called ‘poofters’ for looking good and I wanted to be like them. I would happily catch the train into the city and walk for hours to look at the stores and see