Born to Be Brad

Dedication

To my mom, my sister, my grandma Ruby, and all of the other amazing women who have inspired me along the way

And to the man who continues to inspire me, my boyfriend, Gary Janetti

CONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

PROLOGUE:
Playing dress-up isn’t just for kids.

PART I: LISTEN

CHAPTER 1:
The bullies may be loud. But your heart can beat louder.

CHAPTER 2:
Anger can be your best friend. Especially when you have no friends.

CHAPTER 3:
Never adopt a fashion trend while on vacation. Or how running away can sometimes be the answer to your problems.

PART II: LOOK

CHAPTER 4:
New York is waiting for you. And it’s not only for the rich.

CHAPTER 5:
Fake it till you make it. Yes, really.

CHAPTER 6:
Open your eyes.

CHAPTER 7:
It’s OK to cry. Just not on the red carpet.

CHAPTER 8:
If you’re not making mistakes, you’re not growing.

PART III: LEAP

CHAPTER 9:
Take risks and be bold. And not just in fashion.

CHAPTER 10:
Leap and the net will appear. Or you better own a pair of parachute pants.

EPILOGUE:
You are the new black
.

Acknowledgments

About the Author

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue: Playing dress-up isn’t just for kids.

I WAS FIVE YEARS
old, and I was already on trend. For the first day of kindergarten, I was dressed in corduroy pants, a pair of sneakers, and a snug little jacket. I was also wearing nail polish. Why? Because I idolized my mother. She looked like a fashion plate to me, and she never left the house without nail polish. And so, on the first day of school, neither did I. That’s what ladies do.

The classroom was full of books and crayons, and there were different play stations set up for us kids, which were clearly divided along gender lines. On the left were the trucks and G.I. Joes for the boys, and on the right a pretend kitchenette and some dolls for the girls. You can probably guess which side of the room I gravitated toward.

My teacher was Mrs. Chandler, and she was the most fashionable woman I had ever seen. She was dressed in an A-line skirt, with a proper cardigan and a poet blouse with a perfect bow tied at the top. She was rather elegant for a schoolteacher, with her jet-black hair and fancy French beret. Oh, and the costume jewelry! And the sensible heels! I didn’t have a vocabulary for these things back then but I knew how they made me feel: like something more was possible.

My love for dressing people started right there, the same way it did for most girls: with Barbie. As a kid in Port Perry, Ontario (population 9,500), I would dress that iconic plastic blonde in the best gowns, styling her hair in an updo to accentuate her long neck. I didn’t know what a stylist was. I didn’t know it was an actual job. But I knew how it felt to play dress-up. I knew that fashion could be a transformative experience, for Barbie and for me. I knew that when the kids on the playground called me names, I could escape in the pages of fashion magazines. I discovered that even normal clothing could feel like a costume. You could be someone else. And dress-up was magic.

My strongest memory from kindergarten isn’t learning the letters of the alphabet but rather learning to recognize Mrs. Chandler’s different looks. I saw something special in her. And I know she saw something special in me, too. At an early parent-teacher meeting, I found out years later, she sat down with my sometimes-confused mother to say, “Don’t ever dampen his spirit. He’ll be fine.” My mom knew I was different. But I think she took comfort in having confirmation from someone else.

I have been blessed to have women like Mrs. Chandler in my life at every turn, and always when I needed them most. Powerful, smart, beautiful women who never discouraged me from playing with Barbie dolls, who never told me to tone down my voice or my mannerisms, who never wanted me to be anything but myself. Which was fairly revolutionary for a reserved town in the early eighties. Mrs. Chandler saw me playing with dolls but didn’t feel the need to pull me away or call my parents down to the school. Because she knew there was nothing wrong with me. She saw a spark, and rather than blow it out, she fanned the flames (so to speak), even though she probably knew the road wouldn’t be easy. That’s what all of these women in my life have done: my grandma Ruby, my mom, my sister, my bosses at
Vogue,
my friends in fashion. They protected me from bullies, from boyfriends, from a sometimes-cruel world, and prepared me for what was next. It is to these women that I owe everything.

This is my kindergarten photo, and a fashion transition look from the seventies to the eighties.

And it has been quite a ride. While it is not very Canadian to champion yourself, I am proud of how far I’ve come—from my days as a fat kid in Port Perry and my struggles as a young adult who always felt on the outside looking in, someone who knew where the party was and knew exactly how far he was from it, to the front row at New York Fashion Week. On September 17, 2010, I was on the cover of the Styles section of the Sunday
New York Times,
dressed in a full Lanvin look. The piece recounted how I was front row at the Simon Spurr show and backstage at Michael Bastian. Joe Zee, the creative director of
Elle
magazine, was interviewed, describing me as “a style icon for this entire new generation of young, cool, preppy, dapper guys.” Cameron Diaz told the story of an Oscar emergency, saying of that high-pressure afternoon, “Brad was able to help me concoct a heel pad out of a toe pad literally as I was running to the car.” The
Times
piece ended with my crossing the street. As a taxi splashed me, I laughed, “That was my
Sex and the City
moment.”