Craft Project

Raw denim jeans, stiff enough to lean against a door unassisted.  Wearing them in at this stage is crucial.  And torturous.

    Plenty of style writers (and even proper writers) hotly defend or persecute jeans.  Though I wear fairly classic clothing in fashion-resistant cuts, I come down firmly in defense of jeans as a sort of current day buckskin trouser—just the thing for casual and active occasions.  They do have one very significant downside though: for a casual garment jeans are awfully high-maintenance.  

    This struck upon me one day when I was at a friend’s house for cocktails.  I opened his freezer, and instead of ice cubes for my Tom Collins I found three pairs of jeans stacked neatly between the Russian vodka and frozen pigs-in-a-blanket.  I had only before that day heard of the practice of freezing worn jeans to kill off the bacteria that causes odor; having witnessed it I decided I would never permit myself to own anything with so dialed-in a fit as to not tolerate conventional laundering.

    Although my routine for jeans is hardly conventional.  Some years ago, dissatisfied with the pre-weathered washes and special effects dominating the jeans market, I was ushered toward raw denim by a helpful salesperson.  He must have known that I would respond to the do-it-yourself approach these jeans required, as rather than giving the heritage pitch he went strait for the clinch: you should get two pairs in case you mess one up.  Remarkably, these were also the cheapest jeans in the place as all the artful faux finishes add significantly to the cost of manufacturing.  This is perhaps the only opportunity one will ever have to pay less for more control over a garment.

    True raw denim is a stiff cotton twill over-dyed with natural indigo.  Cotton is hydrophilic (meaning it absorbs water) and so raw denim will shrink as the cotton fibers dry out and contract.  Some raw denim has already been soaked and slowly dried, known as sanforized, so the consumer won’t have to contend with blindly guessing at size.  Mine were unsanforized, meaning the denim goes from loom to cutting and sewing room to store shelf where they reside in all their inky blue stiffness waiting to be worn.  Unsanforized jeans are often referred to as shrink-to-fit, but a better term might be guess-at-fit.  Most raw denim will shrink ten or fifteen percent before the fit is correct.  The process is truly trial and error.  Of course once the fit does seem dialed-in, the jeans will be nearing their apex, after which, decline into tatty, over-faded impossibility is inevitable.

     Getting shrink-to-fit raw denim jeans to the correct size requires some thought though.  The architecture of jeans is significantly different to traditional trousers.  The waist, seat and side seams of standard jeans do not have inlay (additional cloth pressed flat) so proper alterations are not possible.  A good alterations tailor might be able to cinch a waist or seat by cutting out a strip, but because of the contrast stitching and patch back pockets, the proportions will seem off.  The better route is, with the help of a good salesperson, to try and get the fit right from the start.  Once shrunken, the jeans should be snug—even tight—through the seat and thigh as they will loosen considerably through regular wear.  Pay no attention to the hem—just be certain the waist, seat and thigh seems correct.  

    Rolling or permitting the excess length to stack are both acceptable according to current fashion, and purists would tell you that jeans were never intended to be hemmed.  Personally I find the former slightly too noticeable and the latter impossibly uncomfortable.  Both are also loaded with style and cultural connotation and one or the other can be distracting depending on context.  For these reasons I hem, but only after I am certain the jeans have settled into a consistent length size.  Make certain to specify an original hem; this procedure will ensure the finished hem will resemble the authentic, crinkled, half-inch jeans stitch.

    This is the point in the essay where denim purists send me enraged letters for having skirted the technical aspects of buying, breaking-in, cleaning and living with raw denim jeans.  Keep in mind, though, that these are the same people who freeze their pants.  I like jeans, and I think those made of raw denim are the best choice.  But I also firmly believe that they are casual pants made for leisure and the instant they require much more energy than, say, a dress shirt, they lose my interest.  Here is how I do it.

Buy raw jeans, removing all labels, including interior logos and size tags

Soak flat in bathtub filled with lukewarm water

Hang to dry in crisp, autumnal breeze

Endure wearing on several occasions around the house or garden

Ignore the fact that they are likely far too long until they have softened

Take to alterations tailor to hem, specifying “original hem”

Wear often, launder infrequently on cold, gentle cycle, hang-dry

Fine Tuning

Whipcord in brownish shades and beefy cavalry twill in an ideal gray.

    The warmest pair of trousers I’ve ever worn were corduroys—eighteen ounce wide-whale ones in an offensive yellow that was slyly advertised as goldenrod.  They had other problems: they bagged, were too warm indoors, disagreed with pleats and cuffs and were heavy around the waist.  Worst of all, they dressed neither up nor down, occupying a largely useless space between jeans and woolen flannels.  Despite a raised eyebrow, a second hand shop accepted them.  I sometimes wonder if they are making someone else unhappy.

    But does the trouser wardrobe really need anything other than a few pairs of flannels for cooler weather?  The other way of asking this is: what’s wrong with flannels?  The marled, unfocussed aesthetic of flannels is certainly very handsome, lending itself particularly well to shades of gray, a family that just happens to be the most useful for trousers.  Depending on the weight, flannels can be reasonably to unreasonably warm; between the extremes are thirteen ounce flannels that will insulate the legs from car to building without overheating the wearer once inside.  So if they look nice and perform well, what’s the issue?  

    For me it’s maintenance and durability.  I find myself pressing my flannel trousers more often than others, and I’m not the first to notice thinning and fuzzing at the knees of favorite pairs.  This isn’t an issue for flannel suits as occasions that call for a suit usually don’t involve much crouching or kneeling.  But odd trousers are for those more active occasions, so sometime last winter I made a note to seek out more durable, less fussy winter-weight cloth.  The results are in.

    I’m unsurprised that my search led me to a type of twill.  I’ve always been impressed with the performance of gaberdine trousers; they resist and shed wrinkles, drape well and show no wear after several years.  Gaberdine is a fine twill, though—unsuitable for the cold.  Enter whipcord and cavalry twill, densely woven, robust wool cloths with more pronounced diagonal ribbing, but all of the usual benefits of the twill family.  The whipcord I chose is fourteen ounces and the cavalry twill a stout eighteen ounces.  The idea was to provide some range in performance.  

    But range extends beyond trying to match trouser warmth to outside temperature.  Because of the pronounced diagonal rib, and mottled, tonal effect of the weaves, whipcord and cavalry twill  tread a careful line between cloth for dress and casual or active pursuits.  Perhaps this quality is what endeared this class of cloth to traditional military and sporting applications, where durability and propriety have historically carried equal importance.  Admittedly, some of these fine distinctions might seem arcane by today’s standards, especially given the availability of modern fabrics and lessoned expectations of formality.   I wonder though: what’s more current than carefully sifting through vast choice before landing on the right material for the application?

On Braces

    Let’s dispatch with the nomenclature.  Braces is British English for the adjustable straps that hold up trousers; suspenders is American English for the same, or, and this where some confusion ensues, British English for small garters that hold up unelasticized hose; garter belts are largely unworn undergarments used as justification for the ownership of beautiful lingerie towers (we can cover the shapeless flannel pajamas that have supplanted their original appeal in another essay).  For the sake of clarity and historical accuracy then: braces.  

    I have a good friend, a stylish fellow in his fashion-forward way, who was surprised to learn that braces are worn outside of formal wear.  He seemed impressed when I unbuttoned the jacket of a fairly informal hopsack suit and revealed my own pair of Champagne colored barathea braces buttoned into my trousers.  I think this illustrates the problem: given the choices available for resisting gravity, braces have somehow shed their association with everyday utility while retaining a degree of special event magnificence.  That the newest iteration of James Bond has proudly displayed his white moiré braces on a number of tuxedoed occasions affirms the misapprehension for many.  

    This is strange; to my mind, braces are, if anything, the utilitarian choice.  If I had to dig a ditch, I would want to do it in a roomy pair of trousers that hung from my shoulders.  I’m in good company.  It was Ben Franklin who first stipulated the fire department’s on-duty kit in Philadelphia, the lynchpin of which were sturdy, red braces.   And notable men’s clothing writer and designer, Alan Flusser, traces braces to active duty uniforms of the French Revolution.  For every image of an elegantly dressed man wearing braces that I run across, there are at least two of a laborer catching his breath beneath a more modest pair.  If there is a common theme, I suppose it is this: on those occasions when trousers absolutely must stay up, men turn to braces.  

    In addition to stability, there is comfort to consider.  Belts and side straps depend upon cinching the waistband above or below the hips—a sensation that can vary from tolerable to torture.  Braces evenly distribute the weight of trousers over the shoulders, which even in the case of eighteen ounce whipcord, is barely noticeable.  There is an additional benefit to the setup: because the waistband isn’t doing the lifting it can be left comfortably larger than the waist.  The wearer moves freely, within rather than against his trousers.  And then there is the meta-style aspect; once adjusted to the correct length, braced trousers are maintenance free, and the less time a man spends fiddling with his clothing, the better.

    When braces do go wrong, it seems to be the fault of the trousers.  Namely, too low a rise.  I’m not persuaded trousers need to be explicitly cut to accommodate braces, but they do need a rise that brings the waistband up to the, well, waist.  Worn with hip-hugging pants, braces acquire the look of costume, on par with those obsolete armbands used to gather excess shirt sleeve length.  I’d go so far as to say, if braces are being worn for fashion rather than comfort, the effect instantly becomes disingenuous.  The wearer might as well grow a handle bar mustache.  I’m rarely surprised, then, that the latter often accompanies the former by those followers of niche fashion.  

Pant-a-Porter

Daddy long-legs: chinos with unfinished hems.  

   Ready-to-wear trousers are rarely ready to wear.  Some tweaking is almost always necessary, if not in the waist or seat then certainly with the hem, which, on better trousers, is left unfinished and long enough for Herman Munster.  A decent alterations shop should be able to turn around a few pairs within a week, which is considerably faster than the two to four months typical of fully bespoke or made-to-measure (customized to a standard pattern).  But if having trousers made is an option, why fool around with ready-to-wear in the first place?  Cost, of course—a consideration that becomes acute when dealing with washable cotton trousers intended for warm-weather wear.  

    Like polo shirts, the instant you start laundering your trousers the dimensions will change.  If you have gone to the considerable effort and expense of having trousers made in a washable cloth you might be unhappy to learn that, no matter the precautions taken, sometime around wash number four the waistband will tighten or a seam will pucker, effectively undoing the precision and labor of your tailor.  This inevitability raises an important philosophical question: what is a tailored garment with uncertain dimensions?   Rather than prod the existential foundation of trousers, I decided to limit the bespoke option to those made of wool and linen.  Put another way, washable, warm-weather trousers should be ready-to-wear.

    Since that happy resolution, I have learned that there is style to be reaped in the somewhat imperfect shapes of this type of trouser.  Whereas bespoke trousers hang in perfectly tapering lines, breaking slightly over the shoe, and moving fluidly with the wearer, the ready-to-wear trouser made of washable cotton might cling or bow, bunch or sag, crease, rumple or wilt.  With use and washing they will certainly fade; with love they will fray.  This character is particularly welcome when a finely tailored jacket is introduced.  Similar to the effect of a sculpted bust emerging from a roughly hewn plinth, the latter serves as a foil to the former, accentuating the beauty that can be coaxed from cloth while preserving the honesty of the medium.  

A beloved pair of chinos drip-dries following a flash downpour.  Notice how they have retained the wearer's shape.

    Not unlike the exciting nomenclature of loafers, casual cotton trousers have their own secret language: chinos, drills, khakis, ducks.  Parsing the precise definitions of each can be exciting for the enthusiast, but the common theme is inexpensive cotton cloth, neutral coloring and lineages that invariably lead to the military.  They have retained the rugged allure of campaign and adventure and this is perhaps why the style endures.  Of course unhappy things result when shoehorned into a business context.  The ubiquitous khaki was never intended as business-wear; that it has become one of the unofficial symbols of corporate dullness is its own retribution.  Wear them to a vineyard, a sports event, even a garden party—anything but a conference room.

    There is one rather important decision to be made at the outset, however.  Sometime following World War II when this style of trouser gained civilian acceptance a sort of division formed between British and American versions.  The former retained some of its Military stiffness and slightly trimmer silhouette.  By contrast, the American version became somewhat fuller, straighter and altogether more casual.  I wouldn’t say the differences are dramatic—it's really an experiential distinction.  This is best demonstrated by comparing the offerings of Bill’s Khakis with those found at Cordings.  The former is a relative newcomer offering three fits, the fullest of which is patterned from a wartime original.  The latter is a rickety shop in London’s Piccadilly that, among heaps of English country clothing, sells chinos in an inimitable cut with the most obnoxious button fly ever conceived.  Both are excellent.

    Finally, I’d like to rally women to the cause of this type of trouser.  Father’s Day promotions tend to be saccharine suggestions of novelty cufflinks and sticky colognes.  These things are better ignored in favor of items that sacrifice sentimentality for practicality and style.    Buy the men in your lives some ready-to-wear cotton trousers—they have both by the armful.

Finish with Cream

Replacements, this time in a lovely Holland & Sherry cream linen.

    My favorite off-the-rack trousers I have ever worn were a linen and cotton blend in a relatively trim Italian cut.  They aged wonderfully, acquiring tufted edges with the softness of silver-belly felt.  I wore them to pieces, had them stitched back together and patched over, and wore them to pieces once more.  Though loved, time persevered and it was with sadness at the start of this spring that I decided they would be removed from my rotation.  Mandatory and permanent retirement to my wife’s sewing scrap box, I’m afraid.  

    After a barely tasteful period of mourning, I set about thinking just what made those trousers beloved so as I may replace them as quickly as possible.  Was it the cut?  Not likely; they were noticeably slimmer through the leg and lower rise than what I prefer.  Was it the cloth?  I don’t think so; cotton/linen blends tend to be a compromise between coolness and wrinkle resistance, achieving neither any better than when apart.  The necessity of a belt left me cold, as I prefer side adjusters, and the zipper, for one reason or another, was prone to jams.  That left color—cream.

    It suddenly was clear: cream trousers are practical!  Of course this contradicts almost every sage piece of advice in the book, from avoiding things that are memorable to favoring colors that effectively mask the occasional mark.  But it’s difficult to argue with a color that compliments so much; I challenge skeptical readers to suggest a shirt or jacket shade cream doesn’t agree with.  Red perhaps?  Who has red shirts or jackets?  Navy, bottle green, brown, tan, gray, white—cream looks correct beneath any of these.  And though some may object, I think both brown and black shoes are complimented by a cream cuff.  

    As anyone who has asked for a room to painted “white” knows, shades at this end of the spectrum are infinite and challenging to pin down.  Some creams are yellower than others, some are near white.  Few look like fresh cream.  Names (bone, mayonnaise, pith, ivory, tallow) while charming, aren’t much help.  Then there is the matter of type of cloth; cream linen has different qualities to cream flannel or gaberdine.  The only advice I can offer is to look at many and set aside those to which you are continually drawn.  For me the right cream is luminous with a glowing, happy character that reflects a lively light.  Simple really.

    There is one hot question amongst all this zeal for cream though.  What about gray—that traditional all-purpose trouser color?  As excited as I am about my revelation, I would not part with any of my cherished gray trousers.  Which probably means cream trousers should be considered a finishing touch to your trouser wardrobe.  Here is the distinction as I see it: cream is the useful  off-the-clock counterpart to the far more serious gray trouser.  Or, if preferred, expressed in a snappy little pneumonic: 

Work needs gray;

Cream needs play.

Two-by-Two

The "G" in gabardine stands for goes with everything.

    Something rather interesting occurred to me while discussing odd trousers the other day.  Many men approach wardrobe building with the same goals of efficiency and convenience in mind, but do so in dramatically different ways.  

    The first should be termed the indubitable method.  A practitioner might see a swatch of jacketing or a ready-to-wear jacket he likes, but not be totally convinced until several trouser options are shown alongside.  He then selects the one shade deemed most complementary and buys or has it made.  I understand some men hang the finished trousers with the odd jacket, or even go so far as to have sewn into the waistband a reminder of which jacket they complement lest they be separated.  

    The results are never wrong—a practitioner won’t whiff on an odd-ensemble.  But is he ever really dressed in casual odd elements?  Doesn’t he just posses two-piece suits made of different cloths?  In other words, if the trousers were bought or made exclusively to accompany a single jacket, are they any longer odd?  Personally, I’m afraid to play so fast and loose with the existential underpinnings of menswear.  I’ll leave that sort of reengineering to women who have successfully created the high-heel athletic shoe.

    The other method—the one I prefer—is decidedly less rigid, though perhaps more demanding of its practitioners.  To me, cloth is far more important than precise color coordination, especially when one has grown comfortable with the notion that most odd trousers should be some shade of gray or tan anyway.  This frees things considerably; choosing trousers for summer or winter is as easy as finding a weave and weight that pleases and picking two.    

If your  odd jacket doesn't look right with one of these flannels, congratulations, you've discovered the only one that doesn't.  

    I say this second method is more demanding, but really what’s required is a bit of discipline in selecting those two colors.  Specifically, this means acquiring pairs of lighter and darker shades within the same cloth bunch so at least one of the pairs will contrast well with the intended jacket.  That the lighter and darker options may be made of flannel, gaberdine, whipcord, high-twist, tropical worsted or linen ensures a season-less sort of harmony, while simultaneously alleviating any concern that the final choice is part of a carefully coordinated outfit.  

    This ineffable casualness of trousers which were acquired with versatility in mind can’t, in my opinion, be replicated by wedding single pairs with certain jackets.  But there is another advantage to pairs of light and dark odd trousers in the same cloth: the number needed is far fewer when each pair can work with several jackets instead of only one.  As an admitted advocate of the limited wardrobe and critic of the palatial closet, this appeals. 

Splitsville

Mated for life: this conservative mid-gray sharkskin suit would never work as separates.  Well, the trousers might stray.  

    If what to do with black loafers is at the top of the list of contentious menswear issues, a few rungs below is surely the hot debate surrounding when, if ever, the splitting of a suit is appropriate.  And as spring suggests itself as more than a vague concept, the debate is hotting up.

    The premise—that the issue is binary—is the problem.  I like instead to imagine a casual/formal spectrum, for which all matters of cloth, color, texture, details and historical precedent are accounted.  The further to the left the suit in question falls, the more successful the divorce; the further to the right, the better most do paired for the duration.  

    For instance, a donegal tweed suit featuring a coat with patch pockets and mottled horn buttons will stray from its trousers without a second thought.  The trousers, too, are easily worn odd.  By contrast, a dark blue worsted suit with jetted pockets and navy buttons flounders if split, the jacket (because of its details) not quite a blazer, the trousers (because of the sobriety of the cloth) rather limited.  

    Life would be simple if all suits so easily revealed their character.  But because several factors dictate formality most aren’t as obviously categorized as the above two examples.  A dark gray worsted suit with flap pockets and black buttons remains bound to its trousers—a forsaken, non-garment without them, like a single sock.  But I’m afraid the trousers aren’t quite as true, readily making themselves available to any number of outfits, from sweaters to navy blazers.  That’s just the inherent personality of gray trousers.  One-sided love is always this cruel. 

    And then there are suits where one suspects either party could stray, although it remains unclear how enthusiastically.  The Glorious Twelfth book I highlighted several days ago is packed with cloths with wandering, albeit, unsure, tendencies.  They are worsted cloths (more formal) made to look like tweeds (casual).  Some have more surface interest (casual); some are almost solid (formal); others are boldly patterned (casual).  With these types of cloths split-ability really boils down to styling, and the customer must be clear in his intentions from the outset, or risk being burdened by a suit that is neither here nor there.   

    Some clothes enthusiasts commission navy suits with gadgets like swappable buttons in brass and horn with the hopes that this may mollify any marital disharmony between top and bottom when worn apart.  The idea may seem appealing, but I question whether  all the fiddling that must go on behind the scenes doesn’t deflate any prospect of real progress.  

    My laxest suit is a three-piece in a lovely glen plaid flannel, purpose-built for maximum adaptability.  My tailor, Chris Despos, and I discussed the configuration and the cloth extensively, before settling upon a fairly obvious formula.  I kept the details straightforward—no sport-inspired patch pockets or swelled edges—relying entirely upon the cloth’s fuzzy nap and bold pattern to permit the components their individual freedom.  The trousers work very well on their own beneath cashmere sweaters, or even as an alternative to plain flannels with a blazer.  The vest too looks good worn odd, especially around the holidays.  The jacket, with its usual suit configuration, is the most difficult separate, although it does compliment darker gray flannels.  But if scandal is the goal—if I want little old ladies to faint in the street and strict traditionalists to waggle their canes in my direction—I wear it with a good pair of dark denim jeans.

Menage-a-trois: this glen-plaid three piece flannel is as likely to spend the night apart as together.  

Pants with Lineage (Part II)

Buckskins: Totally caj.  Credit: Augusta Auction Co.

    Part I finished with a promise to place jean-wearing within the context of a more classical wardrobe, but I hope the expectation wasn’t for a list of rules and regulations.  Rather, what follows is a proposal; based upon that premise, some gentle guidelines unfold. 

    Strict classical dressers, who deride jeans as vulgar and, unless mucking out a barn, inappropriate, might be at this very moment raising eyebrows at any suggestion that this everyman’s garment has a place next to their flannels and cords.  But let’s first consider the following analogy: Jeans are to the contemporary man what buckskin breeches or pantaloons were to the gentleman of the Regency era: casual, utilitarian, versatile, and crucially, widely acceptable.  I further propose Beau Brummel, that inventor and arbiter of masculine style, would, if larking about today, have embraced jeans.

    If the Regency ideal was a gentleman of some action and swagger—a man who swung into his saddle with grace, all the while looking down his nose at the overwrought foppery of his predecessors, he needed a pant that reflected his athleticism and candor.  Buckskins—buff-colored, sueded deerskin trousers—fit this image well.  Some action too is expected of today’s man; travel, sport, tending to the house, garden or kids—these things and more require a trouser of some flexibility.  And if one considers the expectation of a certain stylish ruggedness, jeans, like yesterday’s buckskins, emerge as a sensible choice.

    Jeans travel exceptionally well, both in the case and in the cabin.  In fact with all the crouching, kneeling and hoisting required of the traveler today, I shudder to think what state my favorite gaberdines would be in after even a brief flight. It’s not that denim is necessarily sturdier than wool cloth (indeed the opposite is likely true).  The fact, however, is that jeans, unlike other trousers, do not require pressing; they are not upset by wrinkles or folds or stressed seams or worn knees.  Jeans absorb these familiar enemies of tailored clothing, obscuring even the worst assaults in the very character of the cloth.   

    This is because denim is a twill—a sturdy, tightly woven diagonally ribbed textile—made of cotton yarn.  Anyone who has worn a new pair of raw denim jeans can attest to just how stiff the cloth can be.  Denim is indeed tough, but only so far as cotton is concerned.  Cotton breaks down quite readily and so while an inky and dense new pair of jeans might be capable of standing unassisted, it won’t be long before they have softened considerably.  Like good calfskin shoes, quality denim will patinate as it ages.  I recommend rotating three pairs, from the newest, darkest pair, to the oldest, faded pair.  This method assures one Goldilocks pair at all times: not too dark or stiff, but not too faded or ragged either.  

    Unlike twills in wool, though, denim does not drape well at all.  Instead it resists gravity in a sort of cardboard way—something to do with the stiffness to weight ratio.    This quality accounts for the travel versatility mentioned above, but it also limits the cut and styling.   In short, jeans should be relatively snug, and if they are snug, they are also lower rise.  This sportive cut mirrors their utility though; draped wool trousers look elegant, but they aren’t ideal for crouching in the garden.  Attempts at denim trousers have always seemed disingenuous to my eyes, as if the cut itself betrays the cloth (or visa versa).  And just as low-rise thigh-hugging tailored pants of wool have no place in the classical wardrobe, neither do full-cut jeans.  I’m not recommending drain-pipe tightness—just those that conform to the hips and taper with the leg.  Sadly, there is no formula for getting the snugness factor correct, and I would be fibbing if I suggested anything but trial and error results in success.  The fact is you want jeans that start life quite stiff and snug; they will soften and loosen over time, reaching the parabolic apex of perfection before descending into the donation bin. 

    Lastly, jeans are undeniably versatile.  What other pant feels purpose-built for those varied and informal days that might include farmer’s markets, brisk dog-walks, lunch with wives or girlfriends and the odd house chore?  With the smart addition or subtraction of things like suede loafers or crepe-soled chukka boots, button-down-collar shirts, merino sweaters, navy blazers and tweed odd coats jeans remain appropriate.  

    In this sense, jeans don’t just supplant Regency-era buckskins but emulate their style:  utilitarian, close-fitting, versatile and in possession of some swagger.  But jeans, like buckskins, aren’t without their limitations.  Brummel and his lot didn’t wear theirs for more formal occasions, and certainly not those that took place in the evening.  So too might the contemporary man limit his deployment of denim to those times where leisure and activity are, if not imminent, probable.  This takes discipline; if wearing jeans seems even remotely incorrect reach instead for the flannels or cords or gabs.  And this really is the crucial point to be made about jeans: those very characteristics that make them desirable are also what dictate good practice in wearing them.

Jeans, having just departed the Goldilocks phase,  with navy coat and pink oxford.  Tea at the Ritz?  No.  Bordeaux-browsing with the wife?  Sure.

Pants With Baggage (Part I)

Jeans: black and white? 

    Jeans are difficult.  Difficult to get right; culturally fraught; increasingly expensive; terribly high-maintenance and, perhaps worst of all, ubiquitous.  For starters, what people wear are jeans and yet shops that sell the good stuff refer to their collections as denim.  Denim, of course, is synecdoche but we don’t go around requesting to see the whangee when what we're after is an umbrella.  In fact, the lore surrounding the naming of the cloth and resulting pants makes the history of “tweed” seem straightforward.  Whatever; there was durable cloth and workwear made from that cloth at a time and a place and most of it was blue with indigo.  Whether Genoa or Nimes is more responsible for our modern relationship with the garment is less important than this: jeans/denim are/is here for the duration.  

    Now for most this isn’t problematic.  In fact jeans represent a great equalizing opportunity; on the surface, at least, jeans really are egalitarian workwear.  Whether that work is hammering nails or hammering six-figure contracts is unimportant—what matters is one can do both in jeans, and do so unencumbered by the metaphysical implications of, say, a canvass jumpsuit or pinstriped DB.  We have invited jeans into our collective wardrobes, and in doing so, they have transcended their station.

    However, jeans do seem to raise the hackles of a few.  The rare etiquette expert, (and their common manifestations the event planner and the concierge) consider jeans more as a concept than a garment.  For these self-anointed arbiters the presence or absence of jeans represents a clear division between “normal” and “dress,” where anything north of jean-wearing is considered the latter.  This sort of binary thinking leads to very strange happenings.  I once attended a wedding where the single attire request was “No Jeans.” I was tempted to arrive in a vintage sarong and a pair of huaraches to test if that mercurial instruction was what the wedding planner truly meant.  I wore my trusty navy hopsack instead, and, with the exception of the minister, was marooned in a sea of khakis, polo shirts and orphaned suit jackets.  This is because, as I’ve previously stated, informality is often a perilous place.  

    As for restaurants, bars and, increasingly, country clubs, the once prevalent “Coat and Tie Required” has largely been supplanted by the far less helpful “No Jeans.”  Here the  code depends not upon the presence of certain articles of decorum but upon the banning of one, seemingly random garment.  A sign outside a hotel bar might just as well read; “No Agatine Eyelets, Please”.  Baffling; then again, revealing of a deeper layer in this complex story.  We live with a latent fear of appearing elitist.  Rather than risk telling people what they should wear we instead discern a scapegoat—jeans—and hope all participants understand the real or imagined implications of such a garment.  In my estimation, this sort of mystical propriety is far more elitist than asking someone to tie some silk around the neck.

    Of course this makes it sound as if I am advocating the general use of jeans for any social or business occasion—an especially curious position as I have in the past made clear my preference for real trousers.  But that’s not it at all.  I am merely confounded by the infamy of pants made from denim, versus, say, pants made from chino—another cheap cotton twill.  One type of pant is laden with baggage whilst the other glides anonymously beneath the noses of the persnickety.  I’ll offer a shaky theory as to why this may be.  The former is the clothing of laborers, while the latter a descendant of a military uniform.  Are the romantic colonial connotations of khaki what gains its acceptance?  And are grizzled, denim-swathed gold-rushers the reason jeans are shunned at the golf course? 

    There aren’t neat answers to cultural phenomena, and so I will finish part one of this exploration the way we started: jeans are difficult.  Somewhat more satisfyingly, Part II broaches the reality of wearing jeans rather than the philosophical act of doing so.  I am convinced jeans should be rectified, even within the context of a classical wardrobe.

No. Layered.  

An Odd Business

More patterns than sense.  

    I was sad to discover that I can no longer find an old photograph of my senior year English teacher--Dr. Bird, no less--who sits beaming from a rickety chair in our school’s cafeteria.  He wore a mustache and longish, albeit receding, hair better suited to a man half his age.  But his clothes always outshone his tonsorial habits.  Despite the years that have passed, I can recall the elements from that missing photo: a blue and white bengal striped shirt; a navy foulard bow tie, tied without precision; a burgundy sweater with a deep V; a pecan and cream checked odd jacket with rust overcheck; medium gray flannels; shoes of snuff suede with crepe soles.  This was dressing in odd elements at its finest, possessed of an elusive tension between propriety and indifference.

     I find myself dressed in casual separates more often than not too.  My odd jackets and odd trousers are made of the usual suspects: flannels and tweeds in cooler months; linen and cotton for our precious window of warmth.  I like to wear a jacket to casual dinners out, but wouldn’t hesitate to appear in flannel trousers and a lightweight sweater over an open-necked shirt to a family gathering, even on the holidays.  I suppose ease and practicality are the guiding principles, but it happens not without difficulty.

    There is a latent complexity when dressing in odd elements, the most obvious example of which might be pattern (or its absence).  Striped tailored garments do not work as separates because they shout business--a condition which defeats the premise of casual dress.  Checks do, although often awkwardly in combination, and solid worsteds are right out as their smooth and even surface belies their formality.  Eh... except for worsted trousers, but only those executed in mottled gray, and possibly olive; blue worsted trousers look orphaned from a suit (but can look dashing in cotton or linen).  And this is well before we broach the crucial matter of Fairisle.  

    Confounding--and enough to drive one to dress exclusively in the practical navy suit (and is likely why smart public figures, like politicians, usually do).  I admire the navy suit, but what a drab place it would be if there were no flannel, or, worse, tweed.  It becomes obvious that just as we require sombre hues and solids when we wish to convey seriousness, so too are patterns, color and texture necessary when leisure is the goal.  So how do we navigate more casual clothes?

    Questions like this leave the door open for rules and it is at this crossroads that we arrive at the counterintuitiveness of casual dress: it is far, far more challenging to do successfully than more formal correctness.  The options are many more than those proscribed by greater formality, but the line between dégagé and indignity remains terribly thin.  Put simply, the choices are infinite, the guidelines few, and error lurks freely.

    To my mind, masters of casual dress (like the inimitable Dr. Bird) operate by basic principles that, when applied in concert, create that covetable impression that survives long after photographs are lost.  My suspicion is these broad strokes concern texture, scale and color, but I would be flattered to hear what my knowledgeable readers have to say.  If there is interest, I’ll compile the results into a snappy post.

Flannel, tweed and a paisley pattern so large it would do equally well as drapes.

The Trouser Revelations

Even cling-prone flannel drapes well in this cut.

“I grow old… I grow old…

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.”

The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock  - T.S. Elliot

A condensed overview of my personal history with trousers would look like this:  shorts in adolescence followed by khakis and flannels worn throughout elementary and prep school.  The first major change came in college, when low-rise, sagging jeans were not just acceptable, but expected.  Up to this point I had not given too much thought to my figure, particularly as it related to pants.  But once wrapped in course denim that had been riveted into an unlikely form I realized something: my legs were shortish and rather muscled, and my torso long.  This configuration did not pair well with low-rise hip-huggers.  I realized something else, too: stiff, low-rise pants were terribly uncomfortable.   

It mustn’t have been too much of a crisis as I went on wearing this type of pant right out of college and into my early working life.  One day though, and really I can’t say what spurred it, I must have decided I no longer wished to compromise my lower half, and so I looked into proper trousers.  As successful shifts in custom do, this happened incrementally, first adopting slightly higher rise khakis that had fuller thighs, followed by flannels with more of both.  At some stage pleats and cuffs appeared. 

I now have a tailor who understands trousers on a profound level.  My pattern calls for a cut that sits around the waist.  And by waist, I am referring to that indentation that occurs above the hips, somewhere in the vicinity of the navel.  The fabric drapes from that point over my hips and thighs, beginning a careful but definite taper from just above the knee to the ankle, were can be found a whisper of break.  Single pleat; good crease; modest cuffs.  They are thoroughly masculine, lengthening my leg, balancing my torso and emphasizing a trim waistline.  They are also remarkably comfortable.

Now ordinarily this would be a rather dull personal development, but for one very real fact: high-rise, fuller-cut trousers are anathema to men’s fashion, and have been for almost two decades.  Oh, I imagine there have been avant-guarde experiments with fuller trousers at the loftiest fashion houses, but at the consumer level the message couldn’t be clearer: trim, low-rise trousers are what men wear.  This is so ingrained today that discussion of things like pleats and cuffs and navels leave my fashionable friends in disbelief.  I literally must appear before them in my trousers as proof that such a garment may effectively be worn by someone under fifty. 

And so we arrive at the question of age and trouser proportions, and by extension, poor Mr. Prufrock.  If there is one article of clothing most associated with becoming a man it would be the trouser.  Schoolboys once wore shorts, and it was a mark of adulthood to adopt long pants.  But these days the reverse seems more desirable.  Many men hold tightly to fashionably trim and low-rise pants as a way of suggesting youth is still within reach.  And while the look may work for some time, particularly if we remain fit, eventually all men are better served by trousers with an elongated and more elegant line.  Do we associate the latter with maturity?  We certainly do.  And what is the matter with maturity?

Elliot continues the earlier image of Prufrock rolling his trouser bottoms thusly: “I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.”  While he might have meant the line as a sign of resignation, I like to imagine there is also a suggestion of pride that comes with forfeiting the anxieties of youth in favor of comfort and personality.  Which reminds me; I must ask my tailor if he can source just such a lightweight, cream flannel—perfect for contemplative walks on the beach.

Darwin agrees: a higher rise supported with side straps represents an evolution in trousers.