As a general rule I try not to get overly emotionally invested in objects, and there are certain types of them that I particularly try not to get attached to. It’s better not to think of "owning" sunglasses, headphones, or bikes, but to consider them on loan to you until they get broken or stolen.
Recently, like a hardboiled cop in a '90s action movie, I fucked around and broke my number one rule, and fell in love with a pair of sunglasses. They weren’t anything special: a pair of knock-off Ray Ban Erikas that I bought in a two-for-one deal from a street vendor last summer. The other pair I lost pretty much immediately, but the fake Erikas hung in there through a year of heavy usage and knocking around my bag without a case, including two different trips to Europe. Somehow the more trashed they got, the deeper they burrowed themselves into my heart.
Either through fate, or else something weird in my subconscious, I finally lost them on the way back from picking up a pair of Ghostly International’s new sunglasses. I’m a big fan of Ghostly, both for the quality of the music they release and for their willingness to question what it is a label does, then offer interesting experiments as possible answers. They put out an album in the form of a sculpture. They gave away their entire catalog of recordings to anyone in Ann Arbor, Mich. with a library card. And they’ve curated a selection of designer-y nonmusical goods on their webstore that they could easily spin off into their own online lifestyle boutique. Among them, two different styles of sunglasses produced in collaboration with Warby Parker, including the new Henning model.
They’re very nice sunglasses, which is probably good considering that they cost $145. But how do they compare to the ones I just lost?
Looks-wise it’s a draw. The Henning has a rounded frame with a keyhole bridge and looks like it might have some Erika DNA in it. They’re a little smaller than my old glasses, which is a problem since my old ones were what I consider to be the perfect size, and once I find something that fits me perfectly, wearing anything else gives me anxiety.
On the other hand, the matte black single-sheet cellulose acetate and Japanese titanium the Henning’s made out of are a huge improvement over visibly garbage-quality plastic that’s endured a solid year of constant, careless usage. Similarly, the Henning’s polycarbonate lenses offer a crisp, clear view of the world unsullied by the smeary blur of dozens, or possibly hundreds, of tiny scratches from spare keys and USB thumb drives.
The Hennig is an improvement over my old broke-ass sunglasses on nearly every single metric by which the experience of wearing glasses should be judged (especially if feeling like a cool German techno DJ is a quality that you’re looking for in a pair of shades). After a lifetime of wearing sunglasses in the single-digit price range, I can now understand why people are willing to splash out more.
And yet it still remains to be seen if they can ever take the place of my lost shades. I love these, but I’m not sure I can ever be in love with them. I broke that rule once, and I’m still feeling the pain.