Getting Clothes Made in Hoi An & Ho Chi Minh City: What I Wish I’d Known
An honest traveler’s guide with tips from a Saigon tailor of 20 years
There’s a particular kind of heartbreak that happens a few weeks after a trip to Vietnam. You unpack the linen suit or silk dress you had made, put it on at home, and something is just not right. The fabric feels different, the zipper sticks, and after two washes, the seams start to fray.
I know that disappointment personally. During several months in Ho Chi Minh City, the first person I hired wasn’t actually a tailor, though I didn’t realize the difference at the time. She was a lovely, creative person who knew how to sew, and that distinction turned out to matter enormously. The process dragged on for over two months, the material wasn’t what we’d discussed, and two shirts fell apart after three wears, while the dresses frayed after two washes. When I sent photos and asked her to remake the defective pieces, the answer was a flat no.
I’m not writing this to put anyone down who’s starting out. I only wish she’d been upfront before I bought seven items, three of which didn’t survive three washes. But that disappointment sent me hunting for a real tailor in a sea of Google reviews and hundreds of shops, and it led me to Ms. Kim. I sat down with her, a tailor of 20 years, to answer the questions travelers most often ask and to flag the pitfalls and red flags I learned the hard way.
What’s the difference between a seamstress and a tailor?
That distinction is one I learned the hard way, so let me save you the lesson.
A person who can sew can assemble a garment from your measurements. A tailor reads your body, cuts a pattern for it, anticipates how fabric will behave, and tells you the truth about what will and won’t work.
Ms. Kim has been cutting her own patterns and sewing for 20 years, and running her own District 1 shop for 9 years. She started her craft at sixteen and today, working quietly at a table in her shop, is her sixteen-year-old nephew, Khoa, beginning his own career at the exact age she began hers. She’s teaching him to become an expert tailor, passing the trade down to the next generation.
If you take one thing from this guide, it’s that you are not looking for someone who sews. You are looking for a tailor.
How do I know if a tailor shop is legit?
The simplest test is to ask whether a tailor is actually working in the shop. It sounds obvious, but it isn’t. By Ms. Kim’s estimate, of every ten “tailor shops” in Ho Chi Minh City, only about one has a tailor cutting patterns on the premises. The rest take your order and your fabric and send the work out to someone you’ll never meet.
Why does that matter? An in-house tailor sees your body, your posture, and how you carry your weight, and cuts a pattern for it. An outside tailor receives only a list of measurements. “The tailor outside cannot know who you are,” Ms. Kim said. “Just measurement, and then they do.”
Ms. Kim cuts every pattern herself, even when she’s slammed, because to her, the pattern is the most important step. So look for someone visibly cutting and sewing, not just taking orders at a counter, and don’t be shy about asking, “Is there a tailor here, or do you send the work out?”
Two more red flags: people who approach you on the street claiming to work for a tailor are often steering you to overpriced or low-quality shops, and hotel referrals can carry a commission markup. The street markets are sketchy, too. I’m not saying there aren’t any good tailors in there, but mostly you’re getting someone who can sew quickly, with no guarantees.
Where’s the best place to get clothes made, Hoi An or Ho Chi Minh City?
The honest answer: it matters less than the shop you choose. A great tailor in either city beats a mediocre one in the other, and the lessons apply wherever you go.
Ms. Kim names three major tailoring cities: Hanoi, Hoi An, and Ho Chi Minh City. I’ll be upfront: I’ve never had clothes made in Hanoi, and neither Ms. Kim nor I can speak to it firsthand, so I won’t pretend to. What I can speak to is real experience in both Hoi An and Ho Chi Minh City.
Ms. Kim has never been a tailoring customer in Hoi An herself; what she knows comes from customers who had clothes made there and brought them to her shop for repair. Her theory on why some pieces disappoint: often the shop owner isn’t a tailor, so no one with real expertise is watching quality, and the turnaround is so fast there’s no time to get it right.
Here’s the honest other side: Hoi An can be superb if you choose carefully.
On my last trip, I had ten items made: pants, dresses, and shirts, a tall order, since I’m hard to fit. I’d rate the overall quality an honest 8.5 out of 10. Two years later, I still own one shirt and one pair of pants from that batch, in a linen-silk blend, and they both still look new.
What made the difference was the shop I chose: extremely well-established, 15 years in business, so trusted it had expanded to a second location, catering specifically to quality fabrics, with all the work done in-house. It wasn’t flawless, and the imperfections are instructive. The buttons I’d chosen weren’t the ones that arrived on my dresses, but the moment I pointed them out, they were replaced at no charge. One of the women doing alterations seemed reluctant to make the changes I asked for, even though every other piece had been no trouble at all.
The fix? I raised it with the senior tailor, and it was handled immediately.
The lesson in short: go with someone well-established and experienced. At a serious shop, problems get resolved because the people in charge care about your leaving happy. At a weak one, problems become your problem.
How long does it take to get clothes made in Vietnam?
Forget the romance of the “24-hour suit.” Timeline scales with quantity and complexity.
- A single simple shirt or dress: a 24-to-48-hour turnaround is reasonable, even at a good shop, if there’s an in-house tailor. Ms. Kim can take a morning measurement and have you pick up that evening, because nothing leaves the building. The speed comes from control, not corner-cutting.
- A suit: two to three days across three appointments, measurement, a fitting where the half-made jacket and trousers go on, and a final pickup with last tweaks.
- A large order: plan for a week or more. My ten-item Hoi An order took about seven days, with one major fitting and one for tweaks.
Reputable tailors typically want 48–72 hours and two to three fittings for tailored pieces. Anyone promising a large, detailed order overnight is cutting corners you’ll find later.
Here’s the caveat that matters most, in either city: once you pick up your clothes and leave town, it’s too late. If something needs fixing later, your only options are to live with it, fly back, or, in my case, throw it away. So build in time to inspect and wear your pieces before you go, schedule a final unhurried fitting, and never set pickup for the morning of departure.
How much does it cost to get clothes tailored in Vietnam?
Rough current benchmarks:
In Hoi An, a custom suit at a reputable shop typically runs $150–$400 (roughly 3.7–10 million VND), depending on fabric and construction; budget shops quote less, premium and imported fabrics more. In Ho Chi Minh City, a well-made two-piece suit typically runs $140–$400, and District 1 shops often quote $200–$400 for suits, tuxedos, and gowns; a simple everyday or office dress runs 1.4–1.8 million VND depending on fabric.
Remember that what you’re having made is bespoke to your body. Off-the-rack may be cheaper or comparable, but it rarely fits perfectly, and the fabric is often lower quality.
My Hoi An and Saigon prices ended up roughly the same, and paying more is no guarantee of quality. I spent more per item with the Saigon seamstress than I later did with a true tailor.
The most common confusion isn’t being overcharged; it’s currency. One traveler was quoted “75” and had to ask awkwardly whether that meant Vietnam dong or dollars; it was dollars. Always confirm the currency and the full price before agreeing.
There’s also common-sense math. A meter of genuine Italian-mill wool costs a shop about $25–$45 wholesale, and a two-piece suit takes roughly 3.2 meters, so $80–$144 in fabric alone before lining, labor, and margin. A “wool suit” at $80 retail is mathematically not wool. If it seems too good to be true, it probably is.
How much deposit should I pay a tailor?
Ms. Kim typically takes 50% up front; some trusted regulars pay on completion. If a shop demands 100% upfront and charges a rush premium, treat that as a reason to pause.
The reassuring flip side of working with someone who stands behind the work: if you try everything on and you’re genuinely unhappy, Ms. Kim will refund you, because to her, a satisfied customer matters more than the sale. That isn’t standard everywhere, so don’t assume it. Ask about a shop’s policy before you commit. A willingness to make things right is the mark of a tailor worth trusting.
How can I tell if the silk or wool is real?
One of the single biggest sources of disappointment, and the root of my own ruined shirts. Fake fabric is most common in the silk category: synthetic “satin” or “polyester silk” sold as 100% mulberry silk. It’s non-breathable and can irritate skin in the heat.
The reliable trick is the burn test. Ask for a thread from the bolt and hold a lighter to it: real silk and wool smell like burnt hair and turn to ash; synthetics smell like plastic and melt into a hard bead. Ms. Kim used this method on the raw silk I’d bought in India and confirmed it was 100% authentic because an expert tailor wants to be sure the fabric they’re working with is genuine.
Beyond whether a fabric is real, there’s whether it’s right. A subtler signal from Ms. Kim: the salesperson should be able to tell you whether a fabric actually suits your design, not just its color. Where staff aren’t tailors, customers pick by color alone, and no one warns them it’s wrong for the garment. A real tailor steps in and says, “This won’t work with that design.” When she designed a silk dress for me, I asked for it to be fitted a certain way; she told me she could, but the silk fibers might pull or weaken over time. I took her suggestion. That guidance is itself a mark of quality.
What is the fabric “bait-and-switch,” and how do I avoid it?
Knowing this would have saved me time and money. Some shops show you a sample book of fabrics they don’t actually keep in stock. You agree on a premium fabric, then leave, and they substitute the closest-looking cheap polyester-viscose blend, often relabeled with a name that includes the word “silk.” You only find out when the garment doesn’t breathe or pills after two wears.
That’s exactly what happened to me with the first seamstress: I agreed on silk for two shirts, and what I got was a synthetic blend. Both are now unwearable.
Here’s how to protect yourself:
- Feel the fabrics yourself rather than trusting a swatch book, and use the burn test above if you’re unsure.
- Bring your own fabric if you know where to buy it, or know fabric well enough to judge quality on your own.
- Buy from someone who understands fabric, and either has it on site or can source it, so you can see and feel it before you commit.
Will a tailored suit from Vietnam hold its shape?
For jackets, construction matters as much as fabric. Cheaper suits use a fully fused (glued) interlining, and after two or three dry-cleanings, that fused layer can bubble and delaminate, the lapel rolls wrong, and the chest loses shape.
Remember the wool math: real fabric alone can cost a shop $80–$144 per suit, and properly canvassed construction takes more skilled hours than gluing. So a rock-bottom price means corners were cut somewhere, usually inside the jacket, where you can’t see it. Ask whether a suit is fused, half-canvas, or full-canvas, and choose a shop where the person answering is the one making it.
What are the best fabrics for Vietnam’s climate?
I asked Ms. Kim for fabrics that are easy to wear, easy to pack, durable, and cool in the heat:
- For men: bamboo (her top pick for shirts and lighter suiting, light and breathable), plus wool or linen, depending on how formal you want to go.
- For women: cotton-linen and cotton-poly blends. The blends matter; a cotton-linen mix breathes and resists wrinkling better than pure linen, which is why it travels well. (My longest-lasting Hoi An pieces were a linen-silk blend, still strong after two years.)
Her caveat: the design and the fabric have to match. The best fabric depends on what you’re making, which is exactly why a tailor’s input beats picking by color.
Can a tailor copy a dress from a photo?
Yes. Photos, sketches, or screenshots of your ideal design prevent miscommunication, so bring them (I had pages of Pinterest saves). A garment you already love, brought in to be copied, is one of the most reliable routes to a good fit. Ms. Kim confirmed she can copy a dress from a photo, usually within two to three days, plus a little time if she has to source matching fabric.
What’s the biggest mistake customers make?
When I asked Ms. Kim this, her answer was simple: they don’t listen to their tailor. Of every ten customers, she said, the eight or nine who take her guidance end up happy; the one who insists on their own way despite her warning often ends up with something they never wear.
I’ve lived this on both sides. My first seamstress talked me into pieces I disliked, while Ms. Kim told me when a design wouldn’t flatter me, and why, and she was right every time. Come in with ideas, but stay open.
One more thing to decide before you walk in: which pieces really need to be tailored to fit. Baggy, oversized, or stretchy items don’t gain much from being custom-made, so save your money and fittings for suits, fitted dresses, shirts, and trousers.
How does a tailor handle different body shapes?
This is where in-house pattern-cutting pays off, and Ms. Kim lit up explaining it. The skill isn’t about making everyone “slim”; it’s about balance. For a fuller bust and smaller hips, she cuts the waist close but flares slightly at the hip so it reads as proportioned rather than tight. For a larger stomach, she avoids both extremes: too tight emphasizes it, too baggy makes you look bigger, so she balances bust, waist, and hip in the pattern. “This is the most important thing the tailor does,” she said, and it only happens when a tailor can see your body, not just your measurements.
Is there a best time of year to get clothes made?
Yes. Ms. Kim’s busy season runs September through February, peaking from November to February, as locals prepare for Tet and travelers arrive during the holidays and cooler weather. Her advice: visit in the quieter months, when you’re far more likely to get unhurried, attentive fittings.
Should I get a cheap souvenir piece or invest?
Travelers most often come for suits, silk dresses, linen sets, ao dai, dress shirts, and faithful copies of a favorite piece they already own. Whatever you’re after, be honest with yourself about what you’re buying.
If you want a fun shirt or sundress to bring home, something to say you had it made in Vietnam, go for it: pick an established tailor, keep it to one simple item, and a 24-to-48-hour turnaround is a very reasonable ask.
If you’re investing in staple wardrobe pieces you want to wear for years, choose better fabric and a more experienced hand, and allow enough time for real fittings before you leave. There’s no shortage of tailors or seamstresses, and you can always find cheaper, but the cheapest option is rarely the best value, and the most expensive isn’t automatically good. What you’re really paying for is a tailor who sees you, listens to you, sources honest fabric, and stands behind the work.
The bottom line
The travelers who come home happy aren’t luckier. They chose a shop with a real tailor inside, verified the fabric, confirmed price and currency, brought photos, allowed time for fittings, listened to the tailor’s eye, and started small before ordering more. You and your tailor both must share the same vision.
What set Ms. Kim apart was something most tailors avoid: she was willing to fix other people’s work, repairing several items the first seamstress had made with flaws and defects, at a very reasonable price. What she told me is that salvaging someone else’s garment is often more time-consuming than making it new. Her shop’s efficiency was just as telling: where my first experience took two months to produce seven items, Ms. Kim and her team handled more than double that in about three weeks, across three major fittings and one follow-up, a pace set by my schedule, not her capacity.
The most striking thing she said wasn’t a tip at all. She told me she’s “not good at business.” I laughed, given how successful her shop is, but she meant she doesn’t think about taking your money; she thinks about whether you’ll be happy when you leave, because a happy customer comes back and brings their family. She started alone: “I have only me to do everything,” she said. “Right now, I have 14 people.” She grew that team on nothing but word of mouth.
At sixteen, Khoa is learning more than how to cut a pattern; he’s learning that a tailor’s reputation is built one happy customer at a time. Find a shop with that spirit, and you’ll come home with clothes you love.
I want to thank Ms. Kim and her team for all the information they shared for this guide, and for the beautiful clothing I’ll enjoy for years to come.
If you’re in Ho Chi Minh City and want to visit Ms. Kim’s shop: Hoang Kim Tailor
Planning your Vietnam trip? This is part of my growing Vietnam series. You might also like:
This article is not sponsored. No tailor paid for a mention or reviewed it before publication. I wrote it to help fellow travelers avoid the pitfalls I went through.
