Born to Be Brad Read online

  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.”

  For Milan Fashion Week 2011, I was in love with the Jil Sander men’s collection. I wore this orange suit on the first day, and it caused quite a storm. People were following me around all day taking my picture.

  Photograph by streetfsn.com

  Against all odds, I am living a dream. After college, I worked as a fashion assistant at Vogue magazine’s West Coast office, helping out on a dozen high-concept, high-end photo shoots with world-class photographers like Mario Testino. Me? The kid with buckteeth who used to tap-dance in talent shows? The kid who hung a commemorative Marilyn Monroe dinner plate on his bedroom wall? Believe me, I was as surprised as anyone to find myself there, and then on television, in your living room every week, frantically looking for the perfect dress for an A-list celeb. Especially since I’d made some serious fashion faux pas myself over the years. Like that terrible Von Dutch phase I went through when I first moved to L.A., when I thought it was OK to wear a pair of oversize Dior shield sunglasses with novelty T-shirts and cargo shorts. I had blond highlights, and my hair was all nappy with split ends.

  There were other fashion mistakes, believe me. Like the time I went on a cruise with my boyfriend, and I wore Tom Ford for Gucci raw denim, flared Western jeans with a Gucci logo belt, pointy suede Dolce & Gabbana boots, a white shirt, and a Gucci handkerchief around my neck. I had a Sears-catalog blond haircut and I looked like Ellen DeGeneres dressed as a cowgirl.

  And yet my story has all the elements of a fashion fairy tale—with trips overseas and celebrity clients and the chance to work with some of the most beautiful clothing in the world. But what’s less known is that, at its heart, mine is also a survival story—of too much partying, which I used to dull the pain of a sometimes difficult childhood. In my early twenties, I came to a fork in the road and I had to make a choice: Would I continue to abuse myself, or would I listen to the voice of those women in my life, the ones who told me I could be so much more?

  This was harder than it may seem. People from Port Perry don’t just pack up a U-Haul and leave t
own for New York. Most of the people stay and take over the family business. And for them that’s enough. For them, that works. As a kid, I may have been in the basement with my mother adding plaid borders to the bottoms of my jeans and gluing sequins on everything in reach, but no one had any idea I’d make a career of this. That you could even make a career of this. Even I didn’t see it. (I wanted to be a plastic surgeon, actually.) But reading fashion magazines, taping the Tony Awards off the television—it was a window to another world, and it made me realize there was something more out there for me. That if I listened to that same voice that told me Barbie should wear her hair off her face, I’d make something happen for myself. I didn’t always know where I was going. That’s part of the reason I loved fashion. I knew you could play dress-up and be whatever it is you wanted to be that day. And throughout my life, I tried on different personalities, different careers, trying to listen to my voice and see where I was heading. You don’t need to be locked into one look or one strict personality; that much I know.

  I have more to offer in this book than advice on how to get the perfect wardrobe, though there will be plenty of that, too. (Five must-have accessories every woman should own: a great closed-toe pump, a large day bag, a vintage clutch, an amazing pair of sunglasses, and a cocktail ring.) What I am offering, through my story, is proof that you can be your best self, whoever that may be. That you can change your life. That if you listen to the voice in your heart, you will succeed.

  Look, I know: Age thirty-three might be a little early to be writing a memoir. I get it. I’m not Jane Fonda. (I wish.) The stories here may not be entirely unique. An overweight gay kid pursuing musical theater and obsessed with fashion? Shocker! But it is what we do with the information in front of us that is vital. How do you get from point A to point B when the steps in between seem like such a mystery?

  On the beach in Malibu, I’m dressed like a cross between a trucker and Tom Cruise in The Outsiders—and not in a good way.

  What I know is: I got this far. I am a stylist working with clients whose talent I respect. I am ten years sober as of May 3, 2011. This was not some rocket to stardom. A lot was put in my way. My resources were limited. I didn’t have connections. I wasn’t born into this world. I just told anyone who would listen that I wanted to work in fashion. That I had a point of view. And when an opportunity presented itself, I did the work. I rolled up my sleeves and dug in my heels. It took sacrifices. There were times I wanted to quit. There were times where I got so close to the party that I could taste the mini-burgers, but even then it all felt like too much. My sobriety has a lot to do with pushing me forward. I didn’t believe that I got sober to be miserable.

  Canada’s Wonderland, 1982. A ringer tee and jeans? I still wear this look. Incidentally, we’d get season passes to the amusement park. But my mom never wanted me to go alone. She was convinced that I’d die on a roller coaster or that someone would offer me drugs in the bathroom stalls.

  What I want to say is: Thank God I didn’t change. Thank God I didn’t compromise who I was, because I would not be here today. Being yourself comes with a price. I know that. It comes with a lot of adversity. You will run into people who want to bring you down. Especially when you become successful. I am telling my story here—in bold detail—because I want you to know that you don’t have to change. That there is a world out there just waiting for you, exactly as you are.

  What I’m offering is part style guide, part inspirational story about allowing yourself to fail, about listening to your heart and seeing where it leads you. That’s the message of this book. Ignore the bullies, whether they’re from the playground or the office, and find out where your passion lives. Look around and engage and take notes. And when you’re ready, make it happen. This story is divided into three distinct sections: “Listen,” “Look,” “Leap.”

  I will take you to the red carpet at the Oscars, to photo shoots in far-flung locations, to the European runway shows, and to my childhood bedroom, where you’ll find the purple faux-fur jacket I wore to the prom still hanging in the closet. This is the inspirational story of a kid who didn’t fit in. A kid who left a small town in Canada and somehow made his way to the offices of Vogue magazine and then into your living room. Get ready. Life hasn’t been all bow ties and glasses. It’s been glamorous but also rough at times.

  * * *

  “Ignore the bullies, whether they’re from the playground or the office, and find out where your passion lives.”

  * * *

  1

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

  * * *

  I WAS TWELVE YEARS old when I started reading Vogue. Even before that I was always watching Fashion Television, a Canadian TV show that aired Sunday nights after the local news and was hosted by Jeanne Beker. She was Canada’s answer to Elsa Klensch (still is) and I was obsessed with her. I can still hear the theme song in my head (“I have an obsession…”). Ask any Canadian why they got into fashion and Jeanne Beker’s name will come up. She reported from the fashion shows in Milan and New York with such intensity–as if she was a war correspondent reporting from the front lines. Except these were the front lines of fashion. Needless to say, as a kid living for Fashion Television and fighting with his sister over the remote control—so he could watch The Sound of Music again—I wasn’t a big hit with the other Canadian boys in my school. I didn’t care. I was sitting at the kitchen table flipping through junk mail catalogs addressed to my mom and picking out outfits for her. When she was getting ready to go out for the night with my father, I’d go into her closet and grab a pair of denim stirrup pants and a mid-thigh-length T-shirt for her to wear. I’d pester her: “Don’t you have a bracelet for that outfit?” In department stores, I’d walk by the women’s shoe department and shriek, “Mommy, those shoes!”

  It’s important to visualize where we are: I grew up in Port Perry, a small eighteenth-century town on the banks of Lake Scugog in Ontario. Don’t ask me what “Scugog” means. I don’t know the answer. What I do know is that the buildings in town had gingerbread trim, a faux country aesthetic that went nicely with the penny loafers and starched oxford shirts my mom dressed me in as a kid. My hometown looked like the setting for a movie with Meredith Baxter Birney, and my childhood was about trying to fit a round kid in a square town. Fashion Television was like some dispatch from a foreign planet. A place where I belonged. And for the first of many times in my life, I became aware that there was a party going on somewhere, but I was hopelessly on the outside looking in.

  * * *

  “My childhood was about trying to fit a round kid in a square town.”

  * * *

  I dreamed of being an adult, of being thirty years old, because that meant I would be my glamorous self somewhere far away. It’s funny to imagine an eight-year-old child starting every sentence with the phrase, “When I turn thirty…” But I did, because that was my magic age. I didn’t know where I’d be or what I’d be doing. But I knew there wouldn’t be gingerbread houses. I was dreaming of another world. Or Another World. I’d watch soap operas after school, and I was obsessed with Linda Dano, who played Felicia Gallant. Felicia owned the chic store in Bay City, and she loved herself a hat and a knee-length coat and a beaded smock, sometimes all at once. She was sophisticated, and I bought into the idea that hers was a very sophisticated boutique despite the cardboard backdrop. Soap operas are full of smoke and mirrors and glitter, but this became my idea of glamour.

  My childhood misadventures didn’t end with catalogs or soap operas. Sometimes, when my mother left the house, I’d go into her closet and dig out the veil she wore to my christening. I’d twirl around, looking at myself in the mirror and thinking for the first time, “I’m pretty.” As you can imagine, my dad—a manager of a medical lab in nearby Oshawa—wasn’t exactly thrilled. But he didn’t pull away. He didn’t shame me. In fact, the opposite happened. In the third grade, when the boys at school were dressing like their favorite hoc
key players for Halloween, I dressed up like Madonna. I made the costume myself, using one of Barbie’s lace nighties as a glove. Sometimes you have to get creative and make things happen, even as a third grader, to get a message across. I wore a T-shirt cinched at the waist like a dress, and a pair of my mom’s heels, and, yes, lipstick. I’m sure my dad would have preferred it if I’d chosen another costume, like a fireman or a police officer. We lived in a subdivision called Apple Valley, and none of the other little boys there were wearing lipstick. But there was a lot of love in my dad’s heart. He put on a brave face, took my lace-gloved hand in his own, and dragged me around the neighborhood ringing doorbells.

  It’s no surprise that when I think of my childhood, I see it in terms of shifting sartorial inspirations. I made bold choices. And not all of them good choices. A look back:

  Age eleven: To my communion, I wore a white suit with a spread-collar, pastel-colored Hawaiian shirt. I had blond hair and I was going for a Don Johnson, Miami Vice moment. You can judge how successful this was for yourself by looking at this photo. But I considered myself to be the best-dressed in the Catholic church, by far.