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.  

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.

Perfect Squares

Neckerchief, reef-knotted and ready.  

   Between the necktie and the scarf exists another way of closing the collar that has nothing to do with bow ties.  I’m not being coy; this accessory has multiple and varying names, and a general disagreement of size and function.  Is a bandana smaller than a neckerchief?  Is the neck cloth a catch-all term for anything worn inside the shirt?  An ascot is certainly different; like a tie, it is shaped to achieve a particular effect.  But the unisex, unstructured, large square of cloth is what I find the most beguiling.

    I prefer the term neckerchief because it suggests utility rather than mere decoration—precisely the distinction I find important as concerns handkerchieves as opposed to pocket squares.  Of course if someone is crying, or a minor spill needs mopping, whipping off a neckerchief hardly seems the most sensible option.  So what are they for?  On casual occasions in cool weather, a silk or wool neckerchief provides a very effective barrier to drafts.   In summer, a lawn (fine cotton) or linen neckerchief is a glorified sweat band.  I can almost see some readers recoiling, but that’s life when it's hot.  Better a saturated square of cotton than rivulets of sweat collecting about the neck.  Plus they launder.

    This identification of utility should alleviate any timidity in wearing one, but it doesn’t.  Neckerchiefs are still rather conspicuous, even when worn neatly tucked beneath nothing more noticeable than a polo collar.  This is because the effect of wearing anything around the neck is always decorative.  The dullest woolen scarf, soberly arranged, is going to reveal something about its wearer, so what hope does lilac linen have for not attracting attention?  As a countermeasure, I limit my neckerchiefs to muted colors and quiet patterns, allowing the presence of something less familiar to win most of the style points.

    The knot(s) are important too.  True, there are more than one, but really only the reef knot matters.  I realize this sounds narrow, but more elaborate knots are either going to exaggerate the presence of your neckerchief, or invite unwelcome associations to boy scouts (who use a cute little ring to cinch theirs), or chefs (whose traditional four-in-hand produces an awkward, protruding nub).  To tie a reef, first transform the neckerchief from a square into a long strip (known as a pli de base) by folding two opposite corners of the square so they overlap, and folding the remainder in two inch intervals.  Give the result a few twists if you’d like.  Put it around your neck, the left end a little longer than the right end.  Thread the left end over and under the right end, and then the right over and under the left.  The points should protrude from the knot in opposite directions.  Fiddle and tuck the excess.  

    Of course women may do whatever they like with a neckerchief, a point made famously well by Grace Kelly who was once photographed using a silk square as a sling following an injured arm.  Carré de soie, the large, painstakingly printed foulards most notably produced by Hermès are at the top of this amorphous category of accessory.  I imagine either sex occasionally admires items from the other’s wardrobe; I have caught my own wife locked in some mixture of admiration and longing as she held a pair of my sensible brogues.  She has a few nice bags, but nothing tempts me more than her modest collection of carré de soie.  They are vibrant and dense—alive with spring and heft.  More than once, I’ve stood open-necked before them, wondering if I could get away with one of the more subtle prints slipped beneath a collar.

Violet giraffes on an olive ground.  One might say this is an advanced neckerchief.

Second Skin

Hi there: gloves at the ready.

    The second half of February might seem a tad late to begin a discussion on gloves—sort of like writing about linen when the leaves have already turned.  I wonder though: are gloves really only for the depths of winter?  Between walking dogs, commuting and exploring the city, I spend plenty of time outside and my few pairs of unlined leather gloves are indispensable late autumn through the chilly opening of spring.  

    I don’t understand lined gloves though.  A thin cashmere lining hardly protects fingers from proper cold, and yet changes entirely the chemistry of glove wearing. Wallets are inoperable with lined gloves.  Worse, they don’t fit rakishly into the breast pocket of overcoats and tweed odd jackets.  Some might suggest silk lining, but the slight increase in insulation is hardly worth the extra cost and reduction in dexterity.  When it is really cold, I’m afraid the only response is the mitten—hardly dashing, but very effective, particularly if made of densely piled shearling.

    Unlined gloves have other advantages, both practical and stylish.  Remarkably, most unlined gloves seem to work with touch-screens.  There’s likely science behind this; all I know is a well-cut unlined glove looks much better than those nylon things with mesh fingertips.  You will also be able to access your pockets with a hand closely gloved in leather where a bulky lined glove would clumsily  have been removed in the past.  This is where style comes in.  Just as a good shoe closely follows the line of the foot, making it appear slim and elegant, so too does a well-cut unlined glove compliment the hand.  This is especially true of finer-grained leathers, like capeskin (sheep), that have a little gloss to the surface.

    Speaking of materials, I strongly suggest seeking out unusual skins.  Peccary—the hide of a smallish wild pig—is very handsome with its recognizable follicle pattern.  The leather is supple but almost indestructible; not refined, but ideal for casual gloves.  Deerskin is curiously strong too; it is light in weight compared to other leathers and some say warmer.  Real kidskin is very luxurious but rather expensive.  Suede is another favorite, especially in charcoal and dark green. Chamois is good too, although you will have to field questions about why your gloves are pale yellow.  (The best answer: because my glove maker was out of pale pink.)

    Finally, there are all sorts of arcane rules about the formality of the various leathers and shades outlined above.  I have no real opinion here, although obviously darker gloves tend to be better at night and lighter ones during the day.  Cream or parchment-light versions seem like a good idea, but always look like costume pieces.  On the other side of the spectrum, black gloves are about as exciting as rubber overshoes.  Reddish browns, tans, grays and greens seem to look good with all sorts of things without matching any of them—which is ideal for an accessory.  In fact when spring finally does appear, and your unlined gloves have become like a second skin, you’ll wonder what to do with your suddenly rather naked hands. 

Three of a kind: from left, peccary and crochet, hand-stitched deerskin, chamois.