Tailor Shop Stories: The Measure of a Man
By Percy Echols II
In the world of tailoring, there are many ways to take a measure—but few that can capture the fullness of a man.
My father, Percy Echols Sr., passed away on August 18th, 2018—just eight days before his 58th birthday. He was a man who inspired me to pursue excellence in whatever I held most passion for. Yet, for all he taught me, I know surprisingly little about how his love for tailoring first took root. What I do know is this: his shop wasn’t just a place where clothes were mended and measured—it was a space where people were seen, supported, and restored. And that, in many ways, is the true measure of the man. From what I recall, his passion for making clothes began early, nurtured by his mother and encouraged by an uncle— someone he once made a blazer for. Still, to truly understand his journey, I had to turn to the stories of those he impacted. A close friend, Carol P., once shared:
“He told me about a man on 47th Street who had his own shop and took him under his wing. By the time Percy was sixteen, he could sew without a pattern. And by twenty-two, he had his own tailor shop. Sewing was his passion.“
That passion elevated his work far beyond expectations. I often find myself disappointed with tailors today—not because they aren’t skilled, but because none can match what he brought to the craft. My father didn’t just work with fabric—he shaped it, coaxed it, challenged it. Shirts, pants, suits, dresses. Firefighter jackets. Bulletproof vests. Boxing mitts. Punching bags. Even experimental artworks. He tailored them all. His legacy lives in the social fabric of Bloomington-Normal, Illinois. His shop—Percy‘s Tailor Shop—was more than a business. It was a haven. A place of safety and support. Kids with nowhere else to go would drop by. People burdened with heavy thoughts found comfort in his company. His generosity returned to him later in life, when he fell ill. The community looked after him—just as he had looked after them. And when he passed, his memory lived on through the countless stories people shared in passing.
One story stands out to me. I witnessed it myself. I was in the back of the shop, getting ready to order lunch, when a large man entered—slowly, with great effort, supported by his elderly mother. He was severely overweight, sweating heavily, and visibly exhausted from simply standing. My father greeted him warmly, offered him a seat, and let him catch his breath before asking a single question. The man, still standing, said with effort and emotion, “Mr. Percy, I came through your door today because I need your help. My sister is getting married, and I’ve worked hard to lose weight so I can walk her down the aisle, in place of our late father. I heard you‘re the only one who can help me look presentable for the wedding.“
Without hesitation, my dad nodded and said, “Let me see what you’ve got—and please, have a seat. I’ll take your measurements in a moment.”
He began with the waist. Ninety-one inches. He quietly continued taking the rest. The man handed over a suit—pants and a jacket. My dad examined them carefully and said, “There’s not enough fabric here to make this work—”
But before he could finish, the man added, “I brought three more pairs of the same pants and shirts. I came prepared.” My dad smiled, nodded, and said, “I can work with that. I’ll have you looking like this was tailored just for you.”
The man’s shoulders relaxed. His eyes welled up. He had found not only a tailor—but someone who would not turn him away. That’s the kind of tailor my dad was. He welcomed challenges—relishing the ones others avoided. The rest was too easy. A hem, a button, a zipper—he could do those in the time it took for a casual conversation. But the real joy was in working with new materials, strange projects, and impossible requests. To him, if there was cloth, there was always a way.
