I am not a fashionable man. I spend my life walking around in an exoskeleton made of baseball hats and old flannels. Occasionally, deep inside my dumpy cocoon, I hear muffled rumors about other ways to live — that there is, for instance, a whole elaborate universe revolving around what aficionados call “menswear,” different from the broad clothing category of “men’s wear”: guys who spend their lives, and paychecks, obsessing like Talmudic scholars over exotic fabrics, buttons, shirts, hats.

For me, learning about this raised a few obvious questions: For instance, “Why?” and “What on Earth?” and also “Huh?” What could possibly explain this growing contingent of men who spend hours online discussing artisanal, small-batch, outrageously expensive clothing? Can anyone participate? If I were to slip into a pair of $600 shorts, would it instantly change my life? How much men would a menswear wear if a menswear could wear men?

I called Jonah Weiner, a fellow writer for this magazine and a co-founder of the popular style newsletter “Blackbird Spyplane.” Jonah talks about fashion like Chef Boyardee talks about mamma mia cans of noodles. He told me about all kinds of wizardry: a Japanese brand that makes natural fibers seem like synthetic fibers; another Japanese brand that recreates arcane military footwear in lavish detail. When I asked Jonah what he was wearing right now, his answer did not disappoint: “A platonic ideal of heavyweight cotton black drawstring sweatpants,” he said, along with a sweater knit out of cotton and mohair. Although he acknowledged that this might seem over the top for a regular Tuesday morning — the word “mohair,” in particular, tends to get eyes rolling — Jonah said something that I would later see frequently in menswear discussions. Truly special clothing is not just about luxury for the sake of luxury; it is, like all great art, a way to get us to pay attention. In our disembodied world of avatars and glass screens and disposable, mass-produced clothing, a beautiful garment can allow us to remember our bodies, to think about how we sit in the world, to take real pleasure in dailiness. Jonah urged me to go see some menswear for myself — to feel the fabrics, try things on, see what happens.

So I went down to C’H’C’M’, a Manhattan shop that is legendary on the menswear forums. I actually walked past it twice before I noticed the entrance — a nondescript door down a narrow set of stairs. Inside, it was small and plain. Stark white floor. Techno music. It felt like an art gallery; everything was obviously expensive and rare and important, even if I couldn’t say exactly why. I walked around pinching fabrics, scrutinizing colors, gawking at price tags. Some pieces were so outlandish I couldn’t imagine putting them onto a human body as boring as mine.