The Cheap Guy's Guide to Shirt Hunting

My family has a long and distinguished history of bargain hunting.

While other kids were learning nursery rhymes, I was learning that "paying retail is for suckers." A trip to an outlet mall was a cross between a pilgrimage and a military operation. My family and I are the people who get up at 4 a.m. the day after Thanksgiving to wait for the mall doors to open. I consider the purchase of a $10 cashmere sweater last winter as one of my finest accomplishments, and I used to keep the sales tag of a rugby shirt I bought for $3.99 (original price: $36.99) in my wallet. Out of pride.

With this in mind, it should be clear that replacing my light blue button-down shirt wasn't going to be easy. I realize it should be simple to walk into a store and plunk down $40, $50, $60 for a shirt. But for the neurotically cheap, shopping is never simple. I'm as capable of paying full price as Phil Mickelson was of laying up on the 18th hole at the U.S. Open.

There was no question my shirt needed replacing. The light blue button-down is a staple of every man's wardrobe. If fashion is like an unfamiliar restaurant to most men (and trust me, it is), the light blue button-down is like ordering a burger -- not very flashy, but it always gets the job done. My Nautica version, purchased four years ago in Florida (for less than $20, I believe), had served faithfully through job interviews, graduations, weddings, first dates and a particularly nasty spaghetti spill. Sadly, the collar fold had faded noticeably. I briefly thought about trying to bleach the whole shirt a uniform light peach, but instead resigned it to the Goodwill pile.

While its corpse was still warm -- from the dryer -- I began my hunt for a replacement. First, I checked the Web sites of my favorite retailers. At least those that have Web sites that allow ordering. I have some advice for the management of H&M, Express and any other retailer without a robust Web presence: E-commerce? Not a fad.

Having had no luck online, I planned a Saturday shopping trip. In the Metro Center Hecht's, before its transformation to that other department store, I took the escalator up to the men's department and rounded the corner to see that most glorious of four-letter words: "SALE."

Like most department stores, Hecht's kept most of its dress shirts wrapped in plastic and stacked in large bins, creating a crowded, unkempt shirt morgue. The shopper becomes a shirt coroner, examining each item for color (light blue), materials (100 percent cotton, please), collar style (straight), knit (broadcloth), and size (15 1/2 neck, 32/33 sleeves). If the shopper is short on time, it's a bit like being on a sartorial game show, rushing from row to row to find the right shirt before the buzzer sounds. Frankly, I think this could get good ratings on Bravo.

I wandered around the stacks, and there it was: a Nautica shirt, light blue, with a faint checkerboard pattern. It was $29.99. I had seen the same shirt for $5 less at Filene's, but I figured it was worth it to have it in hand. But where was a 15 1/2 ? I yanked out the shirts facing the wrong way in the stack, but the closest I could get was a 15 1/2 (34/35).

I trudged over to H&M, grabbed an adequate item and headed for the dressing rooms. Like all men, I hate the dressing room.

I waited what felt like an eternity, though it was probably closer to 10 minutes. Shifting from foot to foot and sighing dramatically, I stared holes in the doors with red plastic "1" plaques hanging on the outside, indicating that the occupant was trying on a single item. After all that, the shirt didn't fit.

I headed down F Street toward Filene's Basement in the National Press Building. Since I had seen the Nautica shirt at the Farragut Filene's, I was hoping there might be some inventory overlap. They did have the Nautica shirt, something I now considered the Platonic ideal of all things shirty. Once again, though, they didn't have my size.

Right about here is where I kind of snapped.

Unlike most department stores, which stack their shirts in those rectangular stands, this Filene's and many discounters keep their shirts on an angular display; the ziggurat formation invented by ancient Mesopotamian retailers, I believe. At the base of the pyramid are two sliding doors, behind which stocks of extra shirts are kept. I sank to my knees and flung open the doors, rummaging through tangled, heaped Kenneth Coles and Calvin Kleins.

Still no luck.

I headed out the door, angling up 14th Street toward the other Filene's, cursing myself for not buying the shirt when I had the chance. I quickly covered the few blocks, pushed through the doors and beelined for the shirts. And that's where I found it. It had been intentionally buried at the bottom of a stack of shirts, turned around backward so the size wasn't on display.

Just like I left it four days before.