I Am Raw, Selvedge Denim

Don’t you dare call me jeans — because I am NOT jeans. I am raw, selvedge denim — and if you don’t know who I am then you lack both denim awareness, and a disposable income.

I was constructed by artisans in an abandoned cathedral that was converted into a fire station that was converted into a motorcycle repair shop that was converted into a raw, selvedge denim atelier that for some stupid reason is also a barbershop.

“Raw” means I am made of completely untreated, unwashed, 40 oz. indigo denim that was imported from antique mills in Okayama, Japan. “Selvedge” means something else that I do not understand at all — but it’s the main reason I cost $380.

My fabric is so stiff, thick, and coarse that wearing me can result in a terrible rash behind the knees as well as discomfort around the waist and crotch. But the bearded weirdo who sold me to you claims I will break in over time and the waist will stretch into a perfect, form fit.

That is a blatant lie. I will always feel like a medieval torture device made of burlap — an exorbitantly priced hairshirt for your stupid millennial legs.

I am raw, selvedge denim and I own you now.

Oh, you accidentally spilled some unpasteurized sheep’s milk yogurt on me? Too bad because you’re not allowed to wash me. The manual that came with my purchase — yeah, that’s right, I came with a manual — insists you can’t wash me for the first eight months of wearing. Washing too early will rid me of my precious indigo, which creates fade patterns called “honeycombs” and “whiskers” — which are actual terms people who wear me use.

Yeah, not only am I strangling and chafing your legs like a demonic vise-grip, I am also a goddamn biohazard. I will absorb eight months’ worth of stains and farts before I let you even think about washing me — and by “washing me” I mean you can wear me into the ocean and scrub me in sand, which may or may not sanitize me. Oh, you think this is a joke? READ THE MANUAL, NUMBNUTS! THIS IS HAPPENING!

Wait, what the hell are you doing? You can’t fold me. I must be hung when you’re not wearing me, and don’t you even think about folding me over again…. Oh, you’re in for it now, buddy! Wait, oh god, no — stop it! You can’t put me in the same drawer as your Levi’s and chinos! Get me out of here! Back away from the dresser. BACK AWAY NOW. Don’t you forget: I am raw, selvedge denim and I OWN Y—