I live in the ass end of East Vancouver on the corner of Fraser & Ex-Cons. You'd love it: the thug next door, with an evil red skull tattooed into his scalp, has a booming career as a crack dealer. The cops keep shutting him down, his landlord keeps evicting him, yet this plucky entrepreneur keeps breaking back in and relaunching his franchise.

Last month, the cops handcuffed him and shoved him face down on my front steps. As I gingerly stepped over him, the crack dealer flexed his lion tattoo, growled at me, then asked if he could borrow a cup of sugar.

Time to move. Fast. Fortunately, my writing career is taking off. I've been flying around for Rolling Stone, Stuff, and Toro magazines, and I've signed as a screenwriter with the William Morris Agency. As a director, I'm touring film festivals with my latest short film. If I impress the right people, I could soon be directing my first feature-length movie with actors you might even recognize.

Which is all very exciting. Unfortunately, there are crack addicts in my alley who dress five times better than me. I work at home, too, so nobody has to see me wearing ratty ancient jeans and my younger brother's hand-me-up rugby shirt that's splattered in pizza sauce, chin blood, and dog drool. Looking down, I just noticed there's a dead mouse next to my sneakers which, come to think of it, smell foul enough to choke a stone.

You wouldn't want me to squeegee your windshield, let alone invite me into your office. And since I intend to direct movies with big budgets and actual movie stars, how will I convince Hollywood power brokers that I'm a confident man whom they can trust with their money?

So I sent the following SOS to 150 friends and acquaintances. People like you, who actually work in offices where you've had to play dress up to get (or keep) a job:

Dear friends,

I am a filthy hog of a man. I dress worse than the troll living under your local bridge. My shoe-stench has killed one mouse already and will kill again soon, if you don't intervene soon. I have no idea how I'm still married.

I'm revving up for meetings with big-shot film moguls, so I need to find a wardrobe consultant. Can you recommend someone stylish and smart, who will dress me up pretty so I can whore myself in Babylon?

Please get me out of this ghetto,

Ken Hegan

My friend Jennifer, a Leisure editor at the local paper, emailed to tell me that "Fashion Stylist is now the cool term" for wardrobe consultant. Another friend asked me to delete his name from my mailing list. And three people raved about Ina Brooks. A former model, Ina launched her 'image advising' business last winter. By day, she works as a props buyer in the film industry.

So I emailed Ina at imageadvisor@shaw.ca and begged her to "rip these rags off my body and dress me up pretty so I can sell my script, make movies and get stacks of cash, so I can rescue my wife and dog and get the hell out of East Van. Please. Now."

Intrigued, she invites me for tea at her condo. I bike over wearing my best T-shirt and army surplus shorts. She greets me warmly, saying, "I see you're wearing the classic Vancouver Look." She invites me into her condo, which, like the woman herself, is clean, impeccably designed, and a rather pleasant tan colour.

Eyeing my bald noggin, she says "You're a great mannequin." When I ask her "What do you mean by that crack?", she replies, "You're very tall and slim, so clothes will hang off you very well."

"But I don't want hanging. When I was a skinny kid, I wanted shirts to cling to my biceps so everyone would think I was strong like Barry Janzen who lived on Greenfield Avenue."

"Well you're a man now and hanging clothes are attractive," she says. Suddenly, without asking, she reaches over my leg and yanks a loose thread off my shorts. "That's hot. This woman's cool."

But then she winces at my tight black T-shirt. "Never buy black 100% cotton ANYTHING. They fade after two washes and look like crap. You got more of these, right? Get rid of them tonight. You always want to do a cotton blend, with maybe some lycra. That will maintain the shape and the colour."

She says she's taking me to Holt Renfrew (HR) today. Apparently, it's one of Vancouver's finest men's clothing stores. "We'll find clothes that fit you well, and suit your style. The end result is to have you look great and feel great," says Ina. "If you're not self-conscious about the way you look, then you can really focus on the interview process when you're pitching your script."

She drives me downtown then, curiously, she leaves her car parked in an alley. Isn't she worried she'll get towed? "Nahhh, I have commercial plates. They like me shopping in their stores."

She takes me by the arm and I ask her what I can expect from my fashion stylist today. "Image advisor," corrects Ina. "I think a lot of people are intimidated when they first walk into Holt Renfrew but there is no need to be. Rich and poor shop there alike. When we go in, let's just have fun. Don't be self-conscious. Remember: everyone who works there is there to help you."

Holt Renfrew's Menswear section is a carnival of silken delights. Bright striped pants. Polka dot ties. It looks like the circus blew up and landed in neatly folded piles. Ina introduces me to Adam, HR's sales supervisor. A former college volleyball champ, Adam is 31, 6'6", tanned, stylishly dressed, model handsome, and sporting a full head of rakishly floppy hair. My first instinct, naturally, is to hate his perfect guts. But Adam is also the nicest guy on legs, so I grudgingly decide to trust him with my body.

He asks for my size and I tell him I'm a 44. He looks doubtful, then measures my chest to be sure. Sure enough, I'm smaller: 42 inches. "Most men think that their upper body is larger and their pant size is smaller," says Ina.

Ina tells Adam I want four different looks today. I need an outfit for (1) the Power Meeting, (2) the Less Powerful-Yet-Hugely-Consequential Followup Meeting, (3) the Afterwork Schmooze, and (4) the Meeting with A-list Actors.

Look #1: Power Meeting

Ina and Adam practically sprint to the suit section. I try to block them, saying "I'm a creative type who doesn't want to become a 'suit'." But Ina pats my arm and simply says, "People pay attention to men in suits. They make every man looks taller, better looking, more powerful, and more creative."

"Aha, THIS is the perfect suit," says Ina, handing me a wool two-button suit from Zegna featuring burgundy pinstripes. To distract me from the fact it's a suit, Ina says I have "beautiful blue eyes that will pop out if you wear a red or blue shirt." Which doesn't sound very healthy but, what the hell, she's the pro. Adam shows her dozens of shirts, holding them up to the suit. When she hates something, she groans and shudders, physically repulsed. When Adam shows her something she likes, she tilts her head and says, "I don't hate that."

She finds me a purple Holt Renfrew shirt with a spread collar, a thick black Hugo Boss belt, and matching black leather shoes from Brown's. The tie, however, proves challenging. The store is packed with hundreds of brightly-coloured silk ties that, priced at $85 to $225, cost more than my '89 Chevy Cavalier. After holding dozens of silk ropes to my throat, Ina finds one with purple and beige circles. She's thrilled to her pores; I can tell because her arm-hairs practically stand up and say 'Howdy!'.

I try on the ensemble. The pants embrace my bottom like the warm hands of a bold lover. This suit feels like success. Confidence. Body armor. For a mere $995, I feel like a multi-million-dollar-movie-director. The fabric's gorgeous and supple, like it was handcrafted with love by a wise old London tailor (as opposed to being made over a lunch 'break' in the Tiny Fingers Garment Factory).

This suit has two buttons. I try to do them both up but Ina tells me not to do up the bottom one. I tell her that sounds weird. So she gives me her golden rule for buttons. "On a three-button suit, starting from the top down, the rule is SOMETIMES , ALWAYS , NEVER," she says. "If it is a two-button jacket, then just eliminate the top button from the equation leaving you with ALWAYS , NEVER."

So the bottom button is just for show, like nipples on men. Adam adds that some clothing designers used to stitch the bottom button "off-centered" so it wouldn't line up with its buttonhole. "You couldn't button it up properly if you tried," said Adam.

"Your Power Meeting suit is very pulled together," says Ina. "It looks like an outfit and everything looks like it coordinates with one another. The colours are beautiful on you. The tie has circles and the suit has pinstripes but that looks great together. It adds a bit of fun to it. So you still look sophisticated but you look really fun as well."

I note that the tie is skinnier than I've seen since 1987. "A tall guy like you can pull off the skinny tie look," says Adam. "You don't see [skinny ties] catching on so much here but it's been going on in Europe for a good year now." Ina adds, "We're not very [fashionably] progressive here in Canada, nor the guys in BC especially."

"It's amazing how people look at you when you wear a suit," says Adam. "They think 'oh, you must be important'."

It's a commanding look. I like it. This suit tells film biz honchos that I will (a) spend their money wisely, (b), direct a fantastic film, and (c), if push comes to shove, I'm willing to take their family hostage.

Look #2: The Less Powerful-Yet-Hugely-Consequential Followup Meeting

I say to Ina, "Let's just say I have a great meeting with a powerful producer at his Beverly Hills office. He loves my screenplay, which he proves by offering my agent a million dollars for me to direct. While my agent works out the details, the producer invites me for a drink at the Polo Lounge. It's a casual meeting where we'll further discuss my 'vision' for the film.

Exotic, sure, but this meeting isn't much different than a follow-up interview at an ad agency. For this look, Ina urges me to dress more adventurous than my power suit. She says the follow-up meeting is often a little more relaxed, a little more playful, but the ultimate goal is looking sharp, stylish, and impressive.

Adam finds me an eye-popping dress shirt from Duchamp. "I don't hate that," says Ina. Suddenly, for the first time since I was a child in the '70s, my chest is covered in purple, pink, blue, and yellow stripes, plus a purple and green polka dot tie. To balance my flashy upper torso, Ina dresses me in black Zegna dress pants, black slip-on dress shoes, and a Hugo Boss belt with a Devo-esque buckle. My nipples says 'fun!', but I'm all business from the pelvis down.

With the purple noose around my neck, the shirt hugs me snugly, like a sweet but needy girlfriend with a heart of glass, who is so kind and insistent, you finally have to dump her with a pithy text message before changing your cell number and moving to Hollywood. In other words, I like this shirt A LOT.

Ina clips on a pair of cuff links that look like big shiny purple teardrops. "And what do these cufflinks say?" I ask. "They say 'bling'," laughs Ina, "they say 'I'm a rapper'." They also say 'biceps strength' because, man, these suckers are heavy enough to do some damage in a Kamloops bar fight.

I ask Adam how to match socks. He says "socks should match the pants and sometimes the tie." I lift a pant leg to see my hideously stained grey cotton units, that, in college, used to be a different colour. I think.

"We're still doing a business meeting but we're having a bit more fun with it," says Ina. "You're proving the reason why they hired you in the first place because you've got a lot of personality. This look melds together two worlds: the fun, crazy, colourful wild guy, with the sophisticated, sleek business man."

Look #3: After-Work Schmooze

Ina says, "We need to find you a look for when your producer comes to town and you take him to the Gerard bar in the Sutton Hotel [on Burrard]." Affectionately referred to as the 'Slutton', the Gerard is where Hollywood actors drink when they're in Vancouver to shoot sequels and talking dog pictures.

Suddenly I spot the perfect car coat for when I'm driving down Sunset to my Hollywood premiere. It's a distressed brown leather blazer that is so gorgeous, it makes my coccyx tingle. Ina says this autumnal colour is a good tone for my pale complexion (I'm whiter than a Presbyterian Jesus). She quickly finds some supporting clothes and voila: I swagger out of the dressing room looking like a ballsy Parisian safe-cracker.

"This is a serious bad-ass look," says Ina, admiring my faux-snakeskin boots with their pointy, butt-kicking toes. The boots have heft. Power. Kinetic potential. If I wear these to the Slutton, my producer can start a bar fight and I'll definitely be ready to finish it.

Ina says my relaxed boot cut jeans from Diesel (a low low $340) have a "real expensive yet casual feel about them." She hoists them up with a Diesel belt. Its wooden belt buckle has an image of a dead steer's skull and antlers. "Diesel is going for the Death Valley/desert cowboy kind of look in a lot of their stuff," says Adam.

"Did you put this hat on me to cover up my scalp?" Ina replies "no, the hat pulls the outfit together because it gives you a polished look from top to bottom. It ties in the heavy boot. Without the hat, the focus is drawn downward. But now we're evening the whole look out from top to bottom." Which I suspect is a nice way of saying I'm as bald as the tires on my rust-red Chevy Cavalier.

Ina is fully aware that this is a bold new look for me. "A lot of times people get stuck in a rut from a time in their life when they felt like they were at their peak. For men, very often that's right after high school or right after college. Because they are about to enter the world as a man, not a boy, and whatever fashion or hair style was in at that time, tends to be what they then embrace for the next 20 years."

Smoothing down my chocolate-coloured Hugo Boss turtleneck, Ina smiles and says, "This look says 'Don't mess with me'." She's right: I feel sexy and bullet-proof. Precisely how I should feel when I'm driving after dark in L.A. I love it. This leather jacket feels smooth, tough, and alive. It's as if that wise old London tailor created it just for me, by harvesting the skins of all my enemies.

Look #4: Fox-Hunting with Jude Law

For my final ensemble, I wanted a quiet look for when I'm, say, jetting into London to convince A-list actors to star in my movie. A look that's classy, sophisticated, and infinitely subtle. But that got boring, so Ina and Adam created this dandy "Fox-Hunting with Jude Law" look instead.

This outfit consists of:
-plaid Etro pants with black & burgundy lines ($595)
-textured orange Hugo Boss dress shirt ($165)
-orange silk Hugo Boss tie with a small circle pattern that make my retinas throb when I look too closely ($110)
-a grey John Varvatos sweater vest ($375)
-rust-coloured Italian shoes from Ghost, made from seriously distressed leather ($375)
-a button-topped HR cap which makes me want to shout 'Extry, extry, read all about it!' ($85)

I emerge from the change-room and look at Ina for her approval. "Don't look to me," she says. "My advice to men is always 'The first person is you'. It's not me, it's not the sales clerk, and it's not your wife. Look in the mirror and see yourself from 360 degrees. Because that's how people see you. You want to look good coming and going."

I spin around and check out my butt. 'Looking good, Hegan, looking fine.' The taut vest makes my tummy feel sleek. Feels so good, I start dancing and snapping my fingers. Then I slide sideways, boot to boot, as if I'm Justin Timberlake in a dance-off with a knife-wielding fan.

I start to daydream that this look will be a great conversation-starter when I happen to bump into Jude Law in his neighbourhood pub. Then, in an even stranger coincidence, what if I save Jude by disarming his crazy knife-wielding fan (or some guy I pay to pretend to be a crazy knife-wielding fan).

That's it! I'll save Jude's life, earning me his eternal gratitude, undying loyalty, and his firm commitment to star in all my films. Then we'll spend the next fortnight hunting foxes around the British Isles. Plus the pants are so roomy, I can stash their pelts in these natty plaid pockets. Cool!

I tell Adam he should sprint through Pacific Centre, telling everyone in the food court that these pants deserve to be on everybody. He shakes his head and says, "If you're a conservative person, and I throw you into Etro [clothes], you may not trust me anymore. It's over. You may not come back to me or shop here again because you think I'm just trying to sell something. I have to listen to you first. You tell me what you do, what you like to do outside of work, for work, then I build you a wardrobe based on that."

As I dance and glide from mirror to mirror, I ask Ina "So if I'm closing my movie deal in England, this is the way to go?" She laughs and says, "Pretty much you're just going to have to stay in Britain. I don't think this works anywhere else."

The store is closing now, and it's been a good day: A former model touched my leg without asking. And a man, who is younger and much better looking than I am, became my personal butler. As we head to the exit, I thank Ina for waking me up out of my college fashion stupor.

"Fashion changes so frequently, that your goals shouldn't have to be 'completely change your wardrobe every six months', but you have to keep with the times," says Ina. "And I think that today, it was really fun to watch you break out of this mould you're in and try new things and actually like what you see. To the point that you started to dance (laughs). When you're shopping with men, that's a rare and wonderful result."

When I arrive back home, the police have arrested the crack dealer again, and he's handcuffed face down on my sidewalk. Seeing me, he twitches his lion tattoo and growls. But instead of avoiding him, I surprise myself by reaching out, ever so carefully, and yanking a loose thread off his sweatpants.

"I got your sugar right here, buddy," I say, as I swagger up the stairs.

Well, in my movie version at least, that's exactly what my hero will do.

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