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

The Sensible Wash Their Socks at Night

From left: cotton mesh, lightweight wool, silk, and heavy merino.  

    Socks are the single wrench in the workings of an otherwise good marriage.  I already handle my shirts—laundering, line-drying and hand-pressing—and what little dry-cleaning I do is accomplished a few times each year with the help of a very small business and a very large dose of faith.  I don’t believe in precious athletic clothes and underwear, so mine get heaped in with the general population.  This leaves socks, an innocent sounding statement that might as well read: this leaves air, or, this leaves purpose.  

    Why do socks inhabit so precious a place?  Imagine, for a moment, a young boy.  He is an active boy, but also an observant one.  One who climbs old fir trees and scraps with the neighborhood toughs, but also watches carefully as his father ties his tie and laces his shoes.  He can’t say why, but his clothes seem more important to him than they do for other boys his age.  He gets older and his interest in clothes strengthens.  Rather than suppressing his interest, he seeks edification; it comes disguised in books and movies.  He makes the expected mistakes of an amateur, lured astray by the siren call of fashion magazines, but returns loyally  to what he loves: classic clothing, as functional as it is handsome.  His preferences calcify.  He notices the small things—shirt collars that gap or pinch, trousers that bunch or bind.  One day, he turns his attention to socks.  He is dissatisfied with the wimpy, pooling mid-calf socks that are the department store standard.   His salvation comes as a gift; a pair of socks that, because of their length, he assumes are a mistake.  In a rush one day he slips them on.  It is a revelation; the socks stay up, held smartly above the bulge of his calf by a gently elasticized opening.  He seeks out several more pairs.  Soon, he turns his attention to his trousers; in order to maximize the comfort and style of his excellent new over-the-calf socks, he begins seeking trousers with fuller legs and more precisely hemmed bottoms.  The line of these trousers craves jackets with more nuance—a fuller chest, a nipped waist and a natural shoulder.  This elegant silhouette deserves only classic accessories; his shirts and ties are purchased with versatility in mind and his shoes are unimpeachably correct.  It is not long before his wardrobe has molded itself around his now considerable collection of quality socks.  

    So: it all begins with socks.  Some say the shoe is the foundation of a good wardrobe; these people have obviously never had cheap socks puddled like leg warmers below their calves.  It is impossible to feel stylish—let alone look it—if every few minutes attention is turned to adjusting socks.  A hairy and exposed shin, it should go without saying, is also a style killer.  Men used to solve this problem with garters; these held socks in place, but were fiddly and slightly too reminiscent of lingerie.  Happily, elastic and knitting technologies improved, and the modern over-the-calf sock was born.  The best examples today can be made of fine cotton, silk, wool and cashmere or blends in any combination.  They can have texture, like ribbing, and be woven with contrasting yarns to create any of the classic menswear patterns: chalk-stripes, pinstripes, checks, plaids, herringbone and dog-tooth.   Choosing correctly from this vast library deserves an essay of its own, but several pairs in a good pattern and color, say, ribbed flannel grey wool, are indispensable in dressing efficiently and, ultimately, well.

    The problem with good socks is they must be carefully laundered.  The danger of shrinking, running and losing is real.  And so I return to how I began: if good socks are going to be worn, their maintenance is the sole responsibility of the wearer.  Here is how:

Remove socks, fold together and hide from the person who ordinarily does the laundry.

Wait until 3AM; the washing machine will be vacant and the danger of someone interfering with the cycle, minimal.

Inventory your socks; a spreadsheet isn’t necessary but a pen and paper is helpful.

Verify that the machine is free of clothes; bright red shirts often lurk in its recesses, waiting to turn everything pink.

Add socks.  Select the coldest, gentlest setting and launder using premium, delicate-cycle washing powder.

The instant the cycle is finished, remove socks and take inventory.

Hang in pairs on shirt hangers in a cool and airy space.

When dry, immediately fold and return to sock drawer.

Taking Stock

    Anthropologists might describe my restlessness as a stifled urge to prepare for harvest and winter.  The industrious ant at ethical odds with the singing grasshopper, etc.  I blame the dying cicadas.  Or the calvados at lunch.  Either way, these undecided weeks between summer and the cooler seasons ahead always nudge me into reflection and, eventually, action.  I beat carpets and rearrange furniture.  I turn a melancholic eye to the garden; should I provide a quick and compassionate end for my flagging annuals?  Wood is split and things get painted.

    When attention falls to clothing and accessories, however, a gentler touch is required.  Consider the collar: what is the invisible threshold between charming fraying and the need to have a new one made?  Maybe it is time to replace the warped scales of an old straight-razor, or give up on an ancient crocodile belt whose own scales hang perilously.  Old boots are always evocative.  But mink oil and elbow grease must be used judiciously—too heavy a hand can dull their beauty.

   What about the intangible evidence of age?  Jackets with canvass chests mold to the figure.  Shoulders in stout tweed don’t so much collapse as they do settle.  Worsteds indescribably soften and linen trades some of its famous crispness for a fuller hand.  My favorite is the cotton shirt; somewhere beyond twenty launderings even ordinary cloth takes on a satisfying plushness.  But these desirable effects aren’t just invisible; they are temporary.  A soft and full hand is only the initial sign of a less welcome realization—that of decay.  But I’m not the first to consider the tension between labor and the inevitability of deterioration.  Robert Frost managed a few excellent lines on the topic:

…I thought that only
Someone who lived in turning to fresh tasks
Could so forget his handiwork on which
He spent himself, the labour of his axe,
And leave it there far from a useful fireplace
To warm the frozen swamp as best it could
With the slow smokeless burning of decay.  (34-40,The Wood-Pile,1912)

A Brushing Up

Garment brushes relaxing between shifts.  The one of the right is rimmed in soft white bristles for more delicate clothes of cashmere, flannel and lambswool.

    I sometimes wonder if brushing a suit is really just an arcane performance, long surpassed by evolved technology or shifting cultural practice.  Like shaving with a straight razor, more efficient means exist for the job, and if a man really can’t be bothered he can display facial hair without fear of raised eyebrows.  Curiously, while five days growth might not attract much attention, dusty lapels and shoulders do get noticed.  Something to do with a cultural repulsion to dandruff, I suspect.  So what is the correct tool for combat?  

    The most widely used is surely the adhesive roller.  These work, but have two problems.  The first can be ascribed to Murphy: if in a rush for some important appointment, the roller will have a single used sheet remaining.  The other problem is that a roller only grabs surface dust and hair, leaving other matter embedded in the cloth.  Those velvet pads are unhelpful for the same reason, and anything battery-operated is obviously out, if not for the potential of failure (batteries are a famous entry point for Murphy) then for the control one gives up in pressure and vigor.  I have heard accounts of mangled pic-stitching and premature threadbareness while in the hands of dry-cleaners and their exotic devices.  

    I still say the traditional brush is best.  What it gives up in immediate gratification it makes up for by never running out, and while removing hairs and dust might take a more diligent session than the ten seconds previously spent with a roller, the results over time are clearly superior.  You would’t take a few hasty swipes with a straight razor, lop an ear off, and decide the blade’s sharpness was the problem, would you?  No—like any manual solution the results are in the persistence of correct technique.  Here is what works for me:  

Have one stiff and one soft brush.  Use the former for hard worsteds, dense tweed, crisp linen and cotton, the latter for flannel, cashmere, lambswool and anything that seems delicate.

Angle the brush down in the direction of the pass to avoid the bristles biting into the cloth.

Several long, gentle passes are preferable to short, brisk ones.  The danger of raising an undesirable nap is real, even on seemingly robust tweed.

Use the free hand to gently pull taught the cloth being brushed.  Alternatively, support the cloth from inside, running the free hand in tandem with the brush.

Pay particular attention to the shoulders and lapels.  Not only are these the most noticeable portions of a suit, they also collect the most debris.  

Avoid brushing too heavily the sleevehead.  Cloth and shaping can show wear here more readily.  

Set aside half an hour to brush a full suit.  A two minute job achieves virtually nothing.

Heart Felt

    How strange it is that American Labor Day should have become the symbolic end of summer.  More than any other over the past two months, it is this weekend that my straw hats and linen clothes are needed.  And yet I am supposed to be thinking of wrapping these things up for the long, cold haul to Memorial Day?  It is true that only the strictest traditionalists follow to the letter summer and its gear.  But one can hardly deny, either, the melancholic top note that seems to waft in on even the muggiest breeze.  Summer is ending, it cries, and with it, the need for those appurtenances that only now seem relevant.

    One way of lessoning the ache is to spend some time in anticipation of coming seasonal changes.  If heavier clothing of tweed, flannel, cashmere or heavy worsted needs attention now is a good time to begin giving it.   These mends are easily done, though, and need perhaps a week at the most.  Shoes take longer; a local cobbler may need a month, but if your shoes are heading back to the original maker (often overseas), they better make the voyage chop chop—two or three months is normal.

    The most satisfying item to return to its maker, though, is a felt hat.  There is a simple reason for this: no matter how well you wield a brush or manage the steam from a kettle, your skills fall short of the hatter and his laboratory.  My hats return to Optimo around this time each year and when, in a few weeks, I am called to collect them, they appear as if newly made.  It is often not until I try each on do I believe they are mine; a good hatter will remove dust, marks and loose threads, but not, somehow, the molded memory of your head.

With the Grain

    What unearthed memory has led me to a modest collection of brushes?  What stale bristles did I encounter in youth that impressed upon me their worth?  I wish I had some Proustian moment to point to; the best I can muster is a foggy memory of my father whisking sand from my ankles with a dime store hand broom before leaving the beach.  And yet I can barely hold a good brush without studying its design, noting some feature likely invisible to most.  Brushes are tools, but reverential ones.  

    By collection, however, I do not mean a precious and well-lit display.  Each brush is used; when no longer able to perform its intended role, a demotion to some more menial brushing awaits, usually associated with shoes.  Shoes are a terrific excuse for brushes.  So are clothes, teeth, whiskers and felt hats.  A few brushes even deserve their own essays—coming soon, I think.

    Brushing itself is terribly nuanced though.  The brisk passes required to bring up a shine on a toe-cap have nothing in common with the circular nudging used to lather a two day beard.  And brushing a suit deserves five hundred words of its own.  Perhaps that’s why I’m drawn to brushes: each possesses an invitation to uncover a latent technique.  Once learned, the skill remains well past the life of the brush itself.

Presto (Patience)

My shirt bucket materializes beneath a magic oak tree when summoned.  

    Remedies for stains often have a whiff of magic.  Treat red wine with white, as if the latter is the cosmic opposite of the former and, when introduced, both will vanish in a poof of cancelled ions.  And do we all realize that the prevailing theory for why club soda is superior to plain water is that the former’s fizz levitates the stain from cloth?  As for commercially available products, I would be hesitant to squirt anything with sensational claims on my clothes, no matter how charismatic (or Australian) the spokesperson.  

    The rather boring truth is oil and water-based marks in washable cloth—what we commonly refer to as stains—can be removed or lessoned with soap, hot water, rinsing and patience.  That last bit—patience—is crucial.  Soaking a soiled garment is often the difference between salvation and the Salvation Army.

    First, a word on prevention.  I suspect qualms about tucking a dinner napkin into a shirt collar can be traced to a common fear of the lace jabot.  This strikes me as a legitimate concern, as demonstrated by George Lazenby in On Her Majesty’s Secret Service.  But if splash-prone foods are forced upon me, I prefer jabot to uh-oh.  The other, and more sensible option, is to avoid dishes with a higher probability of splatter.  Soup is deadly; Alaskan crab legs worse.  Strand pasta is dangerous too; of course most Italian men I know are not afraid of temporarily looking like Lazenby.  

    Despite precautions, stains happen—sometimes just as magically as those cooky remedies mentioned above—and when they do, a good soak is the wisest option.  The vessel is important.  I prefer a standard round bucket as its narrow opening prevents garments from merely floating on the surface, and a large one will keep five or six shirts comfortably submerged.  This bucket should be dedicated to its role, something best achieved with masking tape, a permanent marker and a sternly worded message.  A lid is useful, but not necessary.  

    A good solution is hot and soapy.  Some swear by white vinegar as its mild acid seems to loosen stains and deodorize, but I find natural white soap works much better and without the unpleasant Greek salad top notes.  Using a micro-plane grater, grate several tablespoons of soap into the bucket; fill two-thirds full with very hot water, stirring to dissolve soap; plunge garments; leave the house if you cannot resist the urge to prod and stir and fuss.  Several hours later (or the next morning) lift the bucket into a deep sink and run cold water into it until the garments are thoroughly rinsed.  Drain, squeezing extra water out, and launder as usual on a gentle cycle.  Hang-dry and press.  

    Admittedly, soapy water and buckets are less exciting than hocus-pocus potions and alakazam additives.  If you feel the above procedure lacks pizzaz, consider painting your bucket black and adding a brim: your shirts will emerge like pristine bunnies from a top hat.  Personally, I am satisfied with the slow magic of soap, water and time.

A Master Presses

    Sometimes words fail, and not because a few can’t be committed to paper—that never seems to be a problem.  Describing the complex or entirely subjective can be a challenge, but some jagged attempt is always possible.  No—the impasse to which I refer has little to do with ability; sometimes words are just not the best medium.  

    Returning from a recent trip, and despite my well planned packing, I found a linen suit was creased beyond the charming rumples that make wearing the stuff a pleasure.  With a holiday weekend full of invitations approaching, I needed it pressed.  As it happened, I had an appointment with my tailor, Chris Despos, so I brought the suit along with hopes of a tutorial.  What I instead witnessed was a master in his dojo vanquishing wrinkles with razor-sharp focus, speed and a few moments of humor.  

    His iron is old and formidable.  His bench wears a battered padded top.  Other implements—a standard spray bottle, a sleeve board, a shoulder stand, strips of unbleached muslin—are no more high-tech than the principle behind pressing itself.  As Despos puts it: “wrinkles release under pressure, heat and steam—remove one and you aren’t pressing.”  This is why he warns against hanging garments in a steam-filled bathroom—that old routine does little  but fuzzes the nap and puckers the seams.  

    I dislike when crafts or skills are compared to art as I feel doing so cheapens both.  But I must admit the parallels to poetry are obvious: form, structure, intent, beauty, and, finally, imperfection.  “A suit,” Despos says, “should never be perfectly pressed.”   Could have fooled me.

Iron Will

Two hands are better than one, especially when finessing the collar.   

    It’s no coincidence that some thoughts on pressing shirts should be published on a Sunday.  Like shining shoes, or tending to one’s vegetable garden, these labors of love are best tackled by regular appointment.  Speed-pressing a favorite white broadcloth as the grace period for a reservation dwindles will only result in lackluster results and spoiled appetites.  Besides, grace periods are for second aperitifs.

    At the risk of sounding like a middle school phys-ed teacher, properly pressing a shirt requires the correct mental attitude.  Is pressing a chore?  Probably.  But reluctance in the approach will no doubt manifest in a creased placket or neglected collar.  As in cleaning shirts, I again urge creating the correct atmosphere: entertainment, beverages and a surmountable quota.  Moreover, think of pressing as a step toward personal style; flawless collars, tubular cuffs and a yoke with some volume just look better than the flat-pressed pancakes most men unwittingly endure.

    The final and perhaps most important aspect to pressing is equipment.  Three items are mandatory: a sturdy, wide-bodied ironing board with a clean cover; a quality misting bottle; an iron.  The first two are readily available at your usual home-goods stores, although look online if the boards offered are rickety.  Irons deserve an essay of their own, but I will skip straight to the conclusion: buy The Classic Iron from B&D. I’m loathe to recommend anything by name, but this is an exception I can stomach.  I have experimented with them all, from expensive German models to Japanese prototypes; nothing even comes close in a performance/value ratio.

   I considered creating a detailed instruction manual, but abandoned the idea in favor of a more helpful list of vital aspects of technique.  This assumes, of course, a rough understanding of the physics of ironing.  If you really are a novice, though, you hold the thing by the end which isn't hot.  

Work from the largest surface areas to the smallest.  The order in which a shirt is pressed might look like this: back panel, left side seam, left front panel, right side seam, right from panel, yoke, collar, left sleeve, left cuff, right sleeve, right cuff.  Avoid arranging and rearranging the shirt; pressing is about momentum.

Use the misting bottle regularly, but not to the point of saturation.  Shirts are easily ironed when damp, but if wet the iron tends to bite and crease the cloth.  Pay particular attention to dampening the seams.

Pressing is a two handed activity.  One hand holds the iron, the other should be used to put tension on the shirt.  This is especially important as you try and stretch shrunken seams back to size or crease your sleeves.  

Pressing should give dimension to flat cloth.  Use the end of the board to press shape into the shoulders.  Use your free hand to stabilize the shirt as you press volume into the shirt’s yoke.  Running the tip of the iron back and forth inside a cuff creates curve that hugs the wrist.  Cuffs should never be pressed flat.  

Unfused collars need special attention as it is easy to crease the excess cloth.  The best method is to tamp the collar down with the full surface area of the iron rather than running the iron along its length.  This will distribute the  cloth allowance without creasing.  

Give the front panels a touchup after the shirt is on its hangar—it will have rumpled a bit during the process.  This will ensure a clean front when the shirt is needed in a hurry.   

    Few sights inspire pride like a row of freshly laundered and pressed shirts.  No, that’s not quite right.  Considering the alternative, few sights inspire relief.

Pressed and ready for service.

Shirts: The Ecstasy

An ambitious half dozen for the advanced shirt launderer.

    If part one argued that ignorance and received wisdom were to blame for the routine abuse of shirts, this installation must begin with the following disclaimer: If you can find in your area a cleaner that will carefully launder and hand-press your shirts for a reasonable price, congratulations, you need not read further.  

    For everyone else, shirts are a personal burden.  The good news is tending to them is far less a nuisance than you might expect.  Particularly when a few steps are followed to ensure the atmosphere is correct.  To begin, limit your allotment to four shirts (more and you’ll feel like Oliver Twist).  Whether a football game or a live recording of Art Blakey, entertainment is required.  Lastly, beer is the best beverage for tending to your shirts as it quenches thirst without the threat of permanent stains.  

    One more note before the nuts and bolts.  We seem to have collectively forgotten that shirts are underwear—a garment worn next to the skin in protection of far costlier outer wear.   A suit is expensive, and so a comparatively inexpensive, launder-able barrier is worn.  That these intermediaries can be fashioned from long-staple cotton or burlap-like oxford isn’t terribly important.  What counts is the shirt’s placement on the totem pole—which is to say, a few notches up from your briefs, but several below your favorite suit.  I can’t say why precisely, but once you start thinking of shirts as underwear, dealing with them becomes an agreeable affair.  

 1)  Sort shirts according to color.  The most important separation is whites from any other shirt with even a trace of color.  Group blues together and the any other colors.  

 2)  Remove accessories.  You do not want to spend your time peering into the drum of a washing machine in search of a missing shirt stud.  This includes collar stays (another thing commercial operations neglect to do).  

 3)  Stack shirts unbuttoned and face up.  Align them by their collars and give a few good shakes, permitting arms to dangle freely.  Lay flat next to the sink.

 4)  Run hot water in open sink.  Using a natural bristle spotting brush and a bar of natural soap, gently work a barber’s lather into the collar band, armpits and cuffs of each shirt.  Do not scrub. Wrap each soaped shirt onto itself and put to the side.  

 5) Fill the sink with warm water.  Soak the soaped shirts for an hour, agitating as necessary.  Drain.  

 6)  Launder shirts on the gentlest, coldest setting (usually marked hand wash, cold) using a very gentle, detergent-free laundry soap like Forever New.

 7)  Hang on quality hangers until dry.  Doing so outside will leave your shirts particularly fresh.  

You now have gently cleaned, wrinkled shirts.  Pressing, about which could be written a book, will be covered in the coming days.

Pig bristles and natural white soap are best for gently working the ring out of your collar.  

Shirts: The Agony

A ghastly scene at the heart of a commercial laundry.  The levers to the lower left operate an inflatable air press.  

    People do strange things to their shirts.  I know an infrequent wearer who, when the need arrises, quickly washes one by hand then presses it while damp.  If nothing else, the effect is consistent: limp.  Another friend has his shirts heavily starched.  He resembles a sandwich-board-man with a chaffed neck.  A third dry-cleans his shirts in the false belief that doing so will help preserve his expensive collection.   At six times the cost of laundering, his collection becomes more expensive weekly.  

    Does the standard dress shirt suffer these abuses at a greater rate than other garments?  I think so.  Why, I’m not entirely certain, although I suspect some dangerous mixture of ignorance and received wisdom about garment care is to blame. 

    In order to make a worthwhile profit laundering shirts, a cleaner must process individual units very cheaply.  This means the minimum handling necessary to achieve passable results.  A typical passage looks something like this: shirts are tagged, roughly sorted according to color, and laundered in a very hot, very caustic solution with dozens of others.  They are then dried to damp and pressed using a number of devices that put efficiency before care.  The shirts are regrouped (assuming they have retained their tags) put on wire hangars, lashed together with a twist-tie, bagged in polyurethane and squeezed onto a rack.  The goal is to process as many shirts an hour as possible; fifty is competitive volume.  

    Now I don’t begrudge cleaners the right to make money laundering shirts.  The problem clearly starts with the consumer who is unwilling to pay a reasonable sum for the service.  The industry has therefore organized around value and speed rather than quality and care.  Of course, this same consumer will be upset when shirts are returned with smashed buttons or blown-out elbows.  Blame will fall on the cleaner who will be made to reimburse or suffer the wrath of some breathless online review.  Consider this though: all garments eventually fail.  If cotton shirts are commercially laundered with some frequency this will occur at an alarming rate.  The real question is who is responsible for this unhappy cycle—the consumer who requires same-day laundered and pressed shirts for peanuts, or the industry who efficiently meets that demand, damaging a fraction of a percent of the total that pass through?  

    But what other options exist?  Perhaps, out of frustration with commercial laundering, you have entrusted your shirts to a wife, or girlfriend or, heaven forbid, a family member.  This is almost as unwise as handing them over to a stranger for communal boiling.  While this arrangement might begin well, at some stage it will end poorly, either when bleach ruins a favorite tattersall, or when you say the wrong thing about how your marcella evening shirts are being pressed.  And then what?  Divorce?  An amendment to the will?  

A so-called spotting table, for the removal of stubborn stains.  Many shirts suffered a terrible fate here.  

     Other fishy practices.  Dry cleaning, which is to say using petrochemicals to clean, will leave cotton gray, lifeless and curiously damp—not the desired result for so expensive a procedure.  As for starch, it rarely dissolves properly when re-laundered, building up and stressing the cotton fiber.  Worse, it prevents shirts from breathing, which defeats the premise of keeping things crisp.  And then there are magical bottled potions which may or may not remove stains; they will certainly be heavily perfumed and expensive.

     I’m afraid this leaves one clear solution (short of hiring a valet): the shirt-wearer must learn to tend to his/her own shirts.  The second installment in this series proposes a universal procedure for doing just that. 

The Ethics of Old

A ghost of its former self.  A facsimile of the original oxford, which is now just a white shirt.  Or is it?

    After a decade of frequent wear, my favorite house shoes have yielded.  They were mock Alberts; velvet uppers and a quilted satin interior qualified them as house shoes, but rather than the stiff sole and built up heel typical of the genre, these were softly constructed with suede bottoms.  The Italian luxury bedding name Frette made them; (the Italians really are universally good at making stylish versions of fusty classics).  Nevertheless, and with little ceremony, they were photographed, then binned.  The event made me think though: When is something beyond repair?  

    I usually preach a mend-and-make-do gospel, from multiple resolings to fearless patching.  Frugality, I have learned, can be appealing beyond the long term savings, creating a certain stylishness of its own, particularly when the repaired item is obviously of good quality.  I have been inspired by photographs of well-attired royals wearing obviously mended clothing and shoes.  I even became a vocal advocate of mending things during time spent in the garment care business (admittedly, this made more idealogical sense than business sense as the margins on repairs of this sort are razor thin).  But a limit must exist—a moment in which something silently moves from fixable to forsaken.

    For me, this limit is defined by sentimentality.  An item to be mended must be able to reenter my active rotation.  If I catch myself contemplating a repair to something that will result in a long retirement to some forgotten closet space, I either donate it, or if not suitable for donation, try and recycle it some other way.  My wife’s sewing kit is full of scraps of good cloth, salvaged buttons and strips of leather, which might seem a grisly end, but is so useful an asset as to alleviate any shame.  

    I wonder if there aren’t universal guidelines though—some map for navigating the forked path between mending for reasons of economy and style and the lonely offshoots of sentimentality and shabbiness?  I don’t claim the following to be universal or complete, but here are my criteria:

-Under oath, are you being sentimental, or practical?

-Is the item irreversibly soiled?  Paint-stained clothing is unusable.  If you must paint: coveralls.  

-Is the item too small or tight--even past the point of alteration?  Promises to fit into things are depressing.  Bin.

-Will the cost of repair exceed the cost of replacement?  Persian rugs can be antique; a suit just becomes old and, one day, unusable.  

-Will the repairs significantly alter the appealing character of the original?  This is the test my beloved Italian house shoes failed; glueing all that velvet down would have made them stiff.  

    Of course one can get lost in ideology of this sort too.  My favorite shirt is actually only a metaphysical figment.  It began life as a blue-and white bengal striped oxford, and when the cuffs and collar frayed beyond respectability, I replaced them with new white oxford.  Then the shirt body became thread bare, so I replaced that with the same white oxford.  It is now a white oxford shirt; it is also my favorite old bengal striped oxford.  What I’ll do when this iteration frays I do not know.  Maybe I’ll have it bronzed.

Farewell, my friends!  I shall remember you like this (or if preferred, like new).

Heel Love

A good polish emphasizes the swooping shape of stilettos.

    I don’t know why, but women don’t regularly see to their shoes.  They might have a cherished pair cleaned when they are sent off for new tips or heel caps, but the women of my acquaintance don’t maintain a battered shoebox beneath their beds brimming with polish and old undershirts.  They don’t have regular engagements with their collections.  And they certainly don’t relish patina—something that would surely bloom just as readily on their pumps as it does on any loafer of mine.  

    The obvious reason might be that women acquire and dispose of shoes according to the swift current of fashion, and the idea of putting effort into maintaining any one pair’s appearance suggests a sort of unwelcome commitment.  Surely many women have calfskin heels in black and beige though, and I’ve seen suede often enough on the feet of fashionable women to know they too have a place in smart rotations.  Then there are exotic skins, pony hair, patent leathers, fabrics and fancy trimmings like sequins and crystals.  

    None of these clean themselves.  In fact it seems to me, the more elaborate the material constituting the shoe, the more prone to premature wear.  And what could be more melancholy than a sequined  evening number made unusable by three years of accumulated dust?  Well, enough already.  It saddens me to contemplate all the shelves out there sagging with neglected pumps and platforms, stilettos and wedges.  I regularly tend to my wife’s shoes, and I can attest to the brilliance that can be achieved with very little effort.  Less surface area, you see.  

    Below are some thoughts on dealing with women’s shoes.  Male readers might consider these suggestions closely with Valentine’s Day fast approaching.  These sorts of gestures seem to go over well.  The one caution I would offer (and this goes for shoes of both sexes) is to test all polishes and other products on an inconspicuous section of the shoe before proceeding further.  Once you are certain the color and finish will go unharmed have at it.  

Calfskin

Same as for men.  Start with conditioner, brush vigorously, apply polish sparingly.  Repeating this procedure with some diligence over time will bring out the marbleized patina so many shoe enthusiasts crave.

Suede

Same as for men.  Treat salt stains and water marks with a vinegar/water solution.  Permit slow, unassisted drying.  Brush against and then with the nap until desirable appearance.  

Patent

A very light coat of mineral oil seems to work best here.  Apply in circles, let sit and then brush vigorously to a blinding shine.  

Exotic skins

Shoes crafted from alligator, crocodile, snakeskin and any other unusual beast are too expensive to monkey around with ordinary products.  Find the most premium emollients specifically designed for your exotic and proceed with extra caution.  

Pony Hair

First, do not joke with your wife or girlfriend that her beloved “leopard” hide shoes are made from ponies.  Pony hair is usually the hair side of calf skin—like cow-hide rugs—and is actually more stable and durable than it seems.  The hair can get ruffled and dusty though; I find gentle brushing in the direction of the hair is all that’s necessary.   Do make sure the brush is polish-free though.

Textile

Shoes covered in textile—whether silk, tweed, or denim (yikes) can be cleaned gently with the same vinegar/water solution used for suede.  Another solution: shoes made from leather, as they should be.

Sequins, crystals and gems

You are limited here to gentle brushing with a polish-free shoe brush.  Anything more is weird.  If the shoes have actual gems (semi- or precious) take to a jeweler and reevaluate the decision tree that led to their acquisition.

Welcome to the jungle: proceed with caution when dealing with exotics.

Reflections on a Sunday Ritual

    The very last thing the internet needs is another complex guide on how to polish shoes.  If you rotate a few pairs made of decent leather, using quality emollients and polishes to maintain them, our collective results will largely be similar.  So whether this guy applies buckets of mink oil, or that guy swears by vintage Krug for the final buff is of little consequence.  Instead, I propose three universal rules for the standard calfskin shoe.

    1:  Brush and tree your shoes after removing.  Absolutely no exceptions, not even of the amorous variety.  She must learn early.  

    2:  Use polish sparingly, attaining much of the desired luster from conditioner and vigorous brushing.  Spiffy, over-shined toe-caps are vulgar; so is spitting on your shoes.  

    3:  Institute a weekly appointment with your shoes.  If you wait until twenty minutes before curtain, you will spend the first act of Madama Butterfly in the lobby drinking lousy "champagne."  Paired with your insistence on rule #1, your evening will end unhappily.

    I’m not sure I can think of anything else that’s truly ironclad.  I suppose the general idea is to preserve your investment without giving the impression that you are weird.  Enjoy the fruits of my recent labor.