Sartorial Love/Hate: Fedora

I adore hats. I have quite a few of them but nowhere near the number I should like to own. For my next purchase, I am rather taken with the idea of a Homburg.

I haven’t always liked headgear. It is only due to recent maturation that I have taken to hat-aspiration. It was very hard to get excited about the kind of headwear that dominated the school and varsity scene; if it was a particularly chilly day, you wore a beanie. And despite the physical pleasure in wearing a head-warmer of this style, it is an amateurish design. No matter how luxurious brands like Burberry Prorsum upgrade the beanie to some vicuna-cashmere, hand-knitted deluxe tea-cosy, it will always be a beanie – no milliner worth their salt would acknowledge it as anything else.

The advantage of a beanie is that no one seems to find it particularly distracting or conspicuous. It barely alters the day’s ensemble; the silhouette remains the same. It is favoured by gentlemen of many a generation, chiefly because it is a cheap, effective and unobtrusive method of keeping warm. The problem? Well, it’s not exactly elegant. It doesn’t have the presence that other headgear offers; the rakish brims, the altered silhouettes. It is, by comparison, disappointingly anonymous.

A fedora, by way of contrast, is precisely the opposite. So noticeable are fedoras, hats that were worn by nearly every metropolitan gentleman just over half a century ago, that when I saw a fedora-wearing gentleman walking towards me on St James’ Street, more than six pairs of John Bull eyes turned and scrutinized the wearer. A gentleman no longer needs to wear an unusual hat to attract attention – he simply needs to wear a hat.

The fedora was a popular item of headgear in the early twentieth century, firstly for women and latterly for middle-of-the-road men. It was ubiquitous; on streets, in cinemas, on tradesmen, lawyers, screen stars and sportsmen. By the end of the 1950s, it was rarely seen as the fashion moved towards hats with smaller brims (for example, the trilby) to complement the clothing styles. By the mid-sixties, the writing was on the wall; JFK had been the first president not to wear a hat on distinctly ‘hat’ occasions and living with headgear had become not only unfashionable but undesirable. The only men still wearing fedoras into the late 60s and early 70s were of an older generation.

Those who wear fedoras love them but they can receive very different responses from others. When I wore a black fedora with a double-breasted jacket earlier on this year, one of the more pleasant responses I received was ‘Ahh, nice hat mate but…you don’t really need to wear one though? I mean, you’re still young.’ Other responses rhymed with ‘banker’, ‘glosser’ and ‘grass-mole’ and it made me consider that there are still plenty of people who are unwilling to allow the fedora to make any kind of renaissance.

I tend not to wear mine very much, which I greatly regret, due to it being such a ‘statement’ hat; it has nothing on my silk top hat or straw boater but, bizarrely, in their own context those models are apparently more tolerable – every mucker, irrespective of class or generation, wears a topper and boater to Ascot and Henley. The ‘statement’ about the hat is that it is an everyday item and that, if I chose to, I could wear it everyday as many millions of men before me once did.

As such, my fedora – a present from a dear relative who admired and cheered my interest in old fashions – sits on my shelf; dusty and rather sad; an unfortunate victim of sartorial love/hate.

How My Ties Were Made

The men and women at Vanners were kind enough to send me pictures recently of how my bespoke ties were made down in Suffolk. So here they are, with explanatory captions.

The three-piece pattern for the tie is laid out on the woven silk, at exactly 45 degrees, having been made to my specifications in length and width.

The resulting pieces are laid out in bunches, ready to be sewn.

The silk tipping to the tie is then machine-sewn to the front and back blades, forming a one-centimetre edge or ‘mitre’ along the edge. I opted for self-tipping, with the same silk as the body of the tie. (There is much tradition around tipping – some brands, for example, deliberately tip all their ties with black in homage to the black-out curtains that were used for tipping after the Second World War due to a fabric shortage.)

The two blades and the neck are also joined together. And a smaller, hand stitch is used to close the tip of the tie to prevent any pulling at that point. Any excess fabric is also trimmed.

The tie is lightly pressed at the tips and seams.

The lining is then inserted into the tie and the folds carefully placed over the centre line. While this is referred to as a seven-fold tie, there are in fact 10 – here you can see eight of them, with two more tucked underneath.

(Ancillary fact on tie folds: Originally all printed ties were seven-folds as the silk came in lengths one-metre wide, and it had to be folded seven times to get the width of the tie. All woven silk came 28-inches wide, as that was the width of the hand looms, and so they were always made into four-fold ties. This was before the use of linings or ties that were made in three pieces. Thanks to the guys at Peckham Rye for that fact.)

When the folds are in place, the tie is pinned along its length to hold its shape prior to sewing.

The self-loop (a loop to hold the rear blade that is the same material as the tie) is then inserted.

Before a single thread is used to sew the entire length of the tie.

The tie is then gently steamed by hand and all its dimensions and measurements are checked.

The self loop and any labels are sewn on by hand before the final inspection.

Which is done by machine as well as eye, before the tie is packaged ready for delivery.

The Ranchers Glove

Sunday was bitterly cold in London, which prompted me to think about winter time accessories.

It is often the case that you fail to appreciate those things which are common place to you. Therefore, I suspect that those readers from the US of A (which is the majority of you good folk) may not fully appreciate my long running obsession with the Rancher Glove.

Curiously, despite the welcome revival of American work wear as a trend, these gloves have been largely ignored. To me they’re as iconic a piece of American apparel as Bass Weejuns, button-down oxford shirts, Redwing boots or chinos. I can’t imagine Clint Eastwood without a pair –whether or not he actually wore them in any of his movies I don’t know. And other than a medieval gauntlet you’d be hard pressed to find a tougher and manlier glove.

Normally made of Deer Skin or even harder wearing Elk skin, they’re the perfect combination of form and function, designed for roping in cattle and laying out barbed wire on cold windswept prairies. Over time to patina changes, and they will become grubbier, which only ads character –rather like beaten up suede loafer.

There is also a curious resonance with gentleman’s apparel of the 20’s and 30’s. The colour alone is very reminiscent of those gloves often featured in Apparel Arts illustrations. With that in mind I’d wear them with anything from a Peacoat to traditional Covert coat.

Not only are they unavailable in the UK , it took me a fair amount of time to find out their proper name. I have found an English glove maker that will knock up a pair, at a reasonable price and of Deer skin. Somehow that seems just plain wrong, like going to Euro-Disney. You feel sullied, deceitful even; it’s just not the full Uncle Sam.

After 2 years of longing I still haven’t managed to get hold of pair. So those of you in a more advantageous position than I, enjoy what you have.

The Wonders Of Bicester Village

I am a sucker for a good deal. Indeed, if one were being unkind it could be said that sometimes being a bargain gets in the way of my actually wanting something. Anywhere north of 80% off and I start to feel giddy.

For a long time I’ve been a fan of the Designer Outlet just outside York. That’s where my in-laws live and it’s a nice excursion when I’m up there for a few days. But recently I discovered Bicester Village; York has rather paled by comparison.

I went to Oxford University yet I think I only went to Bicester once (the outlet is a just a few minutes outside Oxford, around an hour from London). It was a bit of a disappointment - small, damp and not particularly large discounts. How that has changed in the intervening 10 years.

Most outlets offer few options for men. Perhaps a Hugo Boss and a Hackett; Paul Smith if you’re lucky. Most men spend their time wandering around the luxury labels - Gucci, Armani, Prada - looking at the relatively small selection catering to them rather than their other halves.

Bicester has a great Dunhill outlet. Plus Ferragamo, Zegna and Pal Zileri. And Aquascutum, Brooks Brothers and Church’s, Burberry, Tod’s and Gieves & Hawkes (a sad endictment of Gieves that). It’s got everyone. Even Ralph Lauren, a regular in this kind of shopping outlet, has an oversized store here with extreme discounts. There was a Purple Label cable-knit sweater that still haunts me - £695 reduced to £89.

But my favourite discovery was Loro Piana. A extremely luxurious Italian cashmere label, I didn’t realise they had a discount outlet anywhere - indeed, I’m not sure that management is keen for people to know about this one. I picked up a true investment piece: a three-button leather jacket lined with cashmere, soft yet hardy, already imbued with the feeling of 100 winter walks. It was 80% off. I staggered to the till, a little light-headed.

I think the scale of the discounts at the moment is unusual and driven by the economy. According to a regular visitor, increasing numbers of shoppers has meant that the standard discount is not as large as it used to be. The Village is also dominated by Asia women chasing branded handbags and boutique designers, but it’s big enough for everyone to get around - just don’t go the Saturday before Christmas.

The train from London Marylebone to Bicester North takes 50 minutes and costs £23 return. Then there’s a mini-bus shuttle that costs a further £4.40 return and takes about five minutes.

Bring on the Camel

This time of year is perfect for textured jacketing like cord, providing elements of warmth and ideal for layering.

Dark browns, black and blue are perhaps the safe options this time of year. However, I think Camel works well as an alternative, particularly when combined with white jeans and pale grey knits. It’s not a combination I’ve used myself, but have long admired it on others -on those rare occasions I’ve seen it. These colours combined have a clean, crispness that I think suits this time of year.

Perhaps it’s the continental male’s ease with colour, or the milder continental winters but the use of white trousering in autumn/winter is particularly prevalent on the continent. It’s a look I expect to see featured on The Sartorialist more and more over coming weeks.

The inspiration for today’s post (the pictured jacket) comes care of London based Roderick Charles. A useful outfitters, their clothes are traditional in styling, but without the propensity to slim-fit or overt branding of Hackett and Ralph Lauren. I spotted the above needle cord jacket on their website, and reduced to £99 I thought it was a steal.

Having been founded in 1992 the company is a relatively new one. Born in the Square Mile it arose from a made to measure suiting business supplying City Gents with their uniform chalk stripe suits. It is a distinctly English company in styling and outlook. They pride themselves on sourcing British milled cloths for their clothing, which is reassuring from my perspective.

With a fully functioning commercial website, and international delivery, those of you living beyond the White Cliffs of Dover might find it a useful source for classic English kit…and a camel cord jacket.