A slew of menswear designers—among them Raf Simons, John Galliano, and Junya Watanabe—are showing black-on-black streamlined suits and espionage-appropriate hoods. Their models look sleek and high-tech, ready to go clubbing or, if need be, covertly assassinate a Japanese emperor.

The Experience In high school, I spent a lot of energy mocking the goth kids, who dressed as if every day were a funeral. This had long soured me on all-black outfits, so rocking the ninja-chic look forces me to confront, well, my darkest fear. With my black boots, black pants, black long-sleeve shirt, black puffy vest, black wool gloves, and black ski mask, I feel as if I’ve been cast as “Night Sky” in a community theater production.

I also look like a terrorist, and as I walk down Massachusetts Avenue, freedom-loving people watch me closely. I’m afraid to go into a store, lest employees get jittery and I get arrested. (I’m willing to be a slave to fashion, but not a prisoner.) Still, a guy’s got to eat, so I head to Rami’s in Coolidge Corner. I expect a chilly reception. But before I can order, the man behind the counter says, “Ninja?”

“Yes, exactly!” I say, relieved. “Except stylish. What do you think?”

He strikes a kung-fu pose, and kicks a fellow falafel-maker in the butt.
The longer I wear the outfit without police intervention, the less nervous I become—which is not to say I’m not sweating. In fact, I’m getting excessively, unbearably hot. I go to see novelist Nick Hornby read at Brookline Booksmith, hoping for some respite in the cool store, only to discover the event has been moved to a stifling elementary school auditorium. I sit in the front row in full ninja regalia, struggling to pay attention. At one point, my head involuntarily droops and jerks back up. Hornby doesn’t seem to notice.

The Verdict Unless I’m stalking someone on a winter night, the complete outfit is utterly impractical. But when I take off the hood and gloves, friends compliment me on the all-black look. I hear one female coworker whisper to another, “What’s up with Feifer? He looks different. He looks better.” And I agree: It’s stylish, not somber. While I may not be ninja chic, I can happily be after-hours ninja.