Back on the streets of Yangon, I realized I had a small problem: she thought I was far taller than I really am. I was forced to wrap the longyi just below my bust to avoid tripping on it, which meant that it kept untucking itself as I moved. When I went to Mandalay the next day, my first order of business was to get the longyi shortened. This turned out to be slightly more difficult than anticipated: I did not know the Burmese word for tailor, and hadn’t remembered to ask my guesthouse before I left. Wandering up 82nd street, I tried to mime what I wanted to the people I met. “You know….brrrrrrrrrrr?” I’d say, imitating the sound of the machine while pumping my foot and air-sewing for good measure. Blank looks, until one wizened old man grinned toothlessly and grabbed my hand to drag me across the street to a tailor.