For years I've practiced a little ritual when I shop for clothes. I got it from watching my father, who, like his father before him, spent decades in the textiles industry until he was forced into retirement when his last remaining customer moved his manufacturing to Southeast Asia. It's a three-part process that begins with me running my fingers along the inseams of whatever garment I'm considering buying to check the quality of the stitch (one of the best ways to tell how well your clothes have been made). Next, I check the label to see where it was made; and finally I glance at the price tag. Then I typically place the item back on its hanger and mutter obscenities under my breath while I search for the clearance rack.