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.

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Turn It Up

I think there is another reason why women are referred to as the ‘fairer’ sex; their sense of justice. If I want to share imbalanced, humorous, taboo conversations I choose the company of my male friends; in a bar, restaurant or at the club, we guffaw and gibe with typical masculine vigour. We act as countless generations of men have acted when they sat down together to marinade in each others company. We like to think we’re funny, we possibly are. We are certainly capable of entertaining each other. But rarely are we fair.

It’s no surprise that men have found new outlets for their bias and ‘I am always right’ rants. The peacock, strutting proudly into the virtual world, has a new arena in which to exhibit his plumage. Online style and style-critique forums are not only arenas of clothing analysis but parade-ground for men who wish to assert their masculinity. It is true that women can be vicious when it comes to ‘competing’ with each other but men are worse. The most poisonous arguments can develop about button choice, cuff length or lapel width – a fact which completely nullifies any claim men have to being ‘more rational’ than women – and resentment and envy are rife.

Whereas women obsess with what looks good, men - the strutting, proud peacocks – often try not to acknowledge ‘good’ in others but compete childishly on what is ‘correct.’ Excruciatingly sanctimonious, men quote from style scriptures and style clerics in the fashion of some odiously pious fundamentalist. I remarked to a friend recently that I am very much in favour of turn-ups, even in single-breasted suits and he agreed. However, there was a dark cloud in my thinking. Something in me told me that there would be ire of volcanic proportions awaiting such a proposition.

The ‘correct’ style for single-breasted suit trousers is non turn-up; the ‘correct’ style for double-breasted suit trousers is ‘turn-up.’ The apparently ‘correct’ style for odd trousers and jackets is ‘turn-up.’ Some are so close to adhering these codes that anything else, no matter how artistically complete and satisfying, is utterly laughable. If I were to choose turn-ups for all trousers, in some quarters this would make me a laughing stock. However, I have my reasons for liking this style, however hilarious it might be to the devout.

Firstly, turn-ups add structure to the bottom of the trouser which is perfect in pleated trousers as it ensures that the pleat is correctly represented all the way to the shoe. Secondly, turn-ups are a point of interest and detail in an otherwise boring item of clothing – buttons on jacket sleeves are generally useless but they have the same effect – and thirdly, if the trousers are cut correctly, turn up trousers look smarter than non-turned up trousers. This is perhaps why they are favoured in smarter suits such as the double-breasted, but it is confusing that, as a smarter and more unusual flourish on single-breasted suits, they should be so surprising.

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Short And Tight. But What’s Next?

One of the most interesting aspects of men’s clothing is that our tolerance for trends is actually greater than we’d like to admit. Although the writing here at Mensflair is largely a sober contrast to the histrionic gushing on fashion-following forums, a rejection of faddism and label-worship, there are essential, and unavoidable, elements of trend that are little acknowledged. If someone chooses to tell me that I am fashionable or that I simply “must know about fashion” merely because I take an extraordinary interest in clothes, I bristle with intolerance; I generally believe, rather arrogantly and naively, that I am actually unfashionable. I have been wearing, I point out, bow ties before they became a season trend. I also say that my style is too antiquated to possibly be fashionable.

However, what am I avoiding in this analysis? Why am I paying so much attention to minor detail when the fundamental, substantial issues, the sort of things that are only glaringly obvious to other people, are telling a different story?

My jackets, much as I like to believe they are of a ‘classic’ and ‘timeless’ style are a product of recent fashion. Most of them are actually rather short and, in comparison with the prevailing style of other decades, rather tightly fitting. I was bought suits ‘of a fashion’ in the 1990s by classical loving parents that offered the typical Nineties aesthetic; length, little definition in the waist and much broader shoulders. They are items that claim to be the same size, and often smaller, than the items I now wear and yet they feel two sizes too large. When I try these old items on, they not only look dated but they also look wrong; much as skinny ties began to look wrong in the 1970s, and flares began to wrong in the 1980s and shoulder pads began to look wrong in the 1990s.

Fashion is everywhere and affects virtually everything; it beats away your acceptance of trend peculiarities, enforces you to accept the new as the norm and makes you revile what you once loved.

Another case in point is the slimness of trousers. Leaving aside skinny jeans, which I do wear and (perhaps naively) believe are more timeless and adaptable than ‘baggy’ jeans, fashion has done more to our perceptions and understanding of our lower half than we would care to acknowledge. How many times have straight fit, slim trousers been advocated on this site? And how much credit is fashion afforded for this? Even in the tailoring world, a world that does not need to follow the glittering, market-driven, paparazzi influence of fashion, customers are frequently told “Well, gentlemen are wearing their trousers much slimmer these days, sir.”

When I tried on a pair of old Iceberg jeans that were, at the time, comparatively slim, I saw a trouser I would now consider too large. The waist was fine – ten years have not added much in the way of ‘excess’ to my waistline – but the overall style of the jeans was, to this contemporary eye, very confusing. Before I put them on, I remembered, vaguely, the last time I wore them. I remembered the shoes I wore them with, the restaurant I wore them to, the girl whose hand I held as we strolled along the street; they were the height of fashion and I had been teased for them being ‘tight’ by less fashion-conscious chums.

Of course, times change: the friends change, the girl changed and even the street changed. I had expected the same jeans 10 years and 100 fashion-fads later. As a garment, they were unrecognisable to me; two nil to fashion.

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Inspiration Above Propriety

At the press launch of Sharp Suits by Eric Musgrave a few week ago (pictures and report here) there was quite a variety of menswear on display.

Eric himself was wearing a splendid windowpane-check grey suit and gold tie; host Richard James wore a characteristic strong blue suit, white shirt and knitted black tie; and yours truly went for a navy double-breasted with a tie in a rather fetching shade of rust. But there was also Ben Cobb, editor of Man About Town, in a white leather jacket, vest and (of course) moustache, as well as a gentleman in a rubber jacket and all sorts of people wearing drainpipe trousers.

There are few events today at which one could say there is an expectation as to what should be worn. Fewer still where a real sense of propriety dominates. Various concerts, races and royal events are about it. But a book launch on Savile Row brings some expectations – not to dress to a code, perhaps, but to make a certain effort. This, clearly, everyone had done. And while not necessarily endorsing the rubber jacket, I think the event was better for this emphasis on personal style rather than social correctness.

For a pleasant few minutes I was chatting to Michael Whitby-Grubb of Penrose. He was wearing a checked three-piece suit in yellow and tan. His tie was a rather luminescent silver from Penrose itself (apparently the extra shine is due to not letting the silkweavers bleach the silk before they colour it). And he had on chunky brown brogues.

He looked pretty damn good. And it occurred to me that were this a hundred years earlier, an event of this sort would have seen all men in black tie. Perhaps some variation in jacket style, waistcoat or accessories, but essentially all men wearing the same thing. There is a certain ritualistic beauty in that; definitely an elegance that modern society lacks. But it leaves little room for inspiration and personal style.

It seems to me that when we bemoan a lack of smart dress, often we are lamenting men’s laziness and a lack of interest in how they look. That is far more depressing than taste you disagree with.

I wish there were more black-tie events, I do. I wish I had to own a morning suit, and wear that frequently. But I’m glad that Michael can wear what is effectively a country suit to an event of that type, and pay attention to it, dress it up and accessorise it as a result. It inspires me.

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How A Three Rolls To Two

Fans of traditional clothing are fairly united in their dislike of ‘true’ three-button suits – where the jacket is designed to button all the way up and leaves an awkward angle in the cloth if it is not. This fastening design is a hangover from the sleek Italian style of the late fifties and early sixties, where the long silhouette was accentuated by a high fastening and three or four buttons. It inspired the Continental look in the US in the late fifties and the British Mods in the early sixties.

The more elegant alternative for a three-button jacket is to have a lapel that easily rolls over when only the centre button is fastened – so-called ‘three rolls to two’. That way the lapel line is longer and sleeker, but you retain the option of buttoning all the way up if it gets cold, windy or both.

I was chatting to my tailors at Graham Browne the other day and it seems there are two ways to achieve this roll. The first, more English way is to put a loose, sparse row of stitches down the back of the lapel that leads to the centre button. This creates some permanent structure to the roll and ensures that, while it remains soft, it always looks the same. The position of the canvas in the chest also helps contribute to this effect.

The alternative, more American option is to put no structure in the lapels. Without an edge to the canvas or a separate row of stitches, the lapel is happy to roll wherever it wants. It will roll to the centre button if that is the one that is fastened. Or it will roll, though not quite as naturally, to the top or bottom button.

The way to tell the difference is to hang up both jackets and leave them unfastened. The latter construction will roll open very easily, and perhaps even roll over all the way down if there is little canvas in the chest. The former will always roll to the same place – where the stitches were sewn.

Most English tailors prefer more structure to their jackets – with famous and notable exceptions. They feel a jacket without it is more likely to lose its shape over time.

My mid-blue chalkstripe suit I have just commissioned from Graham Browne will be three-rolls-to-two the English way. Controversially, the waistcoat will also roll to its second button. Russell at Graham Browne hates this. But I think it adds a nice, casual tone to the waistcoat – more like a cardigan. And you’ve got to have some individuality, right?

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