A carnation, surgically removed from its horrific bindings and unnecessary embellishments..

My wedding went off without so much as a hiccup—at least that is what the official line is. Few know, however, that at the very precipice, as the last grains of bachelorhood tumbled through the narrows of the hourglass, a calamity loomed that might have been too omen-like to proceed with the ceremony had the groom been superstitious. My boutonnière, despite exhortations and assurances to the contrary, arrived a large and unwieldy thing. It had no chance of fitting its girth through the buttonhole of my tuxedo. And with no time for last minute surgery to relieve the noble carnation at the center of all the ribbon and sprigs and tape, it was unceremoniously pinned to my lapel. There it chafed the grosgrain facing; there it chafed my sensibility; there, in photographs, it chafes to this day.

I forgave my bride, but if I ever run across that florist he had better hope his pruning shears are well out of reach. Why blame the florist? Because it is this otherwise respected profession that is responsible for the perversion of the boutonnière. Do a simple image search; the results will reveal lapels groaning under everything from seaweed to clouds of moss. I don’t doubt the artistry involved in conceiving of and hand-making these displays, but I’m not interested in sacrificing my own understated style so a florist can look pleased with his work. Also—and it really cannot be ignored—florists can charge a great deal more for these grandiose boutonnières than would be tolerated for the individual stem.

This leaves a single way to ensure the boutonnière is correct: walk into a florist, request one flower, pay for it, and then, as if the thought has just occurred to you, snap off all but two inches of the stem, slipping the remainder through your lapel’s buttonhole. Do not, whatever happens, hand the flower back to the florist to cut it; I guarantee it will return wrapped in tape with some cheap ribbon or forlorn spray flowers. The problem with this scenario is because they are inexpensive, rare is the florist who has a fresh stock of carnations for individual sale, let alone in suitable colors.

The complications so far outlined will inevitably lead the flower-less man to what seems like a sensible and permanent solution: the watered silk boutonnière. I don’t disagree that high quality silk flowers make very convincing facsimiles. The efficiency of the guise also appeals. I’m nevertheless unconvinced. It seems too slippery a slope; first false flowers and then, what, those T-shirts printed to look like tuxedoes? If I’m going to wear a flower, I want it to visibly wilt as the evening progresses, until, in a dramatic signal that the party is over, it can be pulled from the lapel and flung.

Why wear a flower in the first? Actually, I rarely do. I used to wear them for other people’s weddings, which is technically correct, but gave the practice up after one too many sidelong looks from relatives of the bride and groom which seemed to say: who the blazes are you? But for daytime events, like christenings, or non-ceremonial evening events, like galas or the opera, few other accessories have quite the same effect. A single flower in the lapel is grand, pushing the man’s suit to the precipice of elegance. But do remember: even the slightest further embellishment will send you hurtling over the edge.