The Perfectionist - The Hunt for Authentic Penny Loafers - NYTimes.com WORDS are like balloons: put too much into them and they burst. Look at the limp shred of latex that was once "luxury." The one now heading for a pop is "authenticity," which has been thrown around to ennoble everything from trendy blue jeans to Jeff Koons sculptures. And the word would haunt me when I decided that, what with a preppy revival in force, I could use a pair of authentic penny loafers, like the ones I had in college. Bass Weejuns, I discovered, had been made at the G. H. Bass in Wilton, Me., ever since they were introduced in the mid-1930s. Very authentic. Alas, the company's corporate parent, Phillips-Van Heusen, shut the Wilton factory in 1998 and moved the 350 jobs to the Dominican Republic. Scratch that. But it turns out that Bass has a new limited-edition line designed by Mark McNairy, the creative director of the stalwart Ivy League haberdasher J. Press. To his credit, Mr. McNairy found a factory in Bangor, Me., that could do the work. In photos, the line looked genuinely old school (even if a pair in alligator rang in at a very un-Yankee price of $3,400). Maybe he could do for the penny loafer what Tom Ford did for the Gucci loafer. I heard that Barneys New York carried the line, but, I soon found, not until spring. Ugh, after all that. Barneys had a similar specimen from the British firm Crockett & Jones. But when I slipped it on, the Cinderella story screeched to a halt. What I had on my foot was a penny loafer, but that's when I realized that the authentic penny loafer - with a long, flat upper stitched to vertical sides - was not what I wanted. The basic boxy moccasin shape is fine for deck shoes, bluchers and well-meaning undergraduates, but what I wanted was 1950s sophisticate, not 1950s squeaky-clean. Barneys also had sleeker, more modern loafers that I had scoffed at only moments before as watered down - inauthentic. I tried a pair in cordovan, a k a horsehide, from Alden, the venerable brand based (and made) in Massachusetts, and thought I was onto something. But that something was $550, the going price for good loafers at Barneys, and had a too-low vamp. A few doors away was Church's English Shoes, a gleaming box with dozens of beautiful classic shoe styles - basically, Manolo Blahnik for men. A style of loafer, the Hertford (above), had just the right mix of devil-may-care and dignity. I tried them on. Cinderella. Price: $645. Ugly stepsister. I needed more options. I needed an old-fashioned, authentic men's shoe store, with 500 varieties stacked from floor to acoustic-tile ceiling, bad lighting and those weird sliding things to measure your feet. I found just that at Citishoes on Park Avenue. They had inexpensive ones from Sebago, which felt too light and flimsy. They had the Aldens, called the "full-strap slip-on," but in calfskin, for a costly but not crazy $390. They also had a style, the plaza slip-on, with a higher vamp that was cooler and more attractive. With a ruler, I determined that a 6 1/8-inch vamp was too low, and a 6 7/8 vamp was just right. And they also had those Church's - still lovely, and still $645. Curious, I asked why the Church's were so much more expensive. A manager said that the leather was better, as was the hand-stitched, fully welted construction. They would crease and wrinkle less and, courtesy of a real cork insole, would mold to my feet over time, becoming more and more like custom-made shoes. It sounded like love. Did I like them enough to spend an extra $200 and enter into a long-term relationship? Or should I get the Aldens and just go have a great honeymoon? I couldn't decide. Like many of those who are loafers by nature, I can never commit.