I used to think that accessories add style in greater proportion to their expense and relative size. Then came three bouts of sciatica (due in part to too much sitting in one place on intercontinental flights in the service of fashion), meniscus surgery on the right knee and the doctor’s assurance that the left knee will soon need it as well. In all cases, I was on a cane until things sorted themselves out; as temporary as those experiences were, they have convinced me that a cane is absolutely the world’s worst accessory. Guys—if you must have a cane, wear a jacket and tie as often as possible and try to keep an erect posture. Doing that at least got me the occasional compliment of looking “distinguished,” which I learned is actually a euphemism for “a man past his prime who manages to keep up appearances.” And don’t ever accept the standard-issue hospital cane. Formerly, a cane was indeed a fashion accessory. When I was young, my parents, who could walk just fine, had an antique cane collection—as a décor item, I suppose. I bought my cane at a midtown Manhattan tobacco shop. The handle is shaped like a mallard’s head. It became known to my small boy as “Daddy Ducky,” and he would take to stomping it around the foyer, saying, “Quack, quack, quack,” until Daddy could gently get Daddy Ducky out of his hands.
Why is a cane so bad? Consider this incident, which is not atypical: I was standing in the Lexington Avenue bus, on my way to work. (When cane-less, I prefer to walk, and quite briskly at that.) An attractive, stylishly dressed woman seated nearby saw me and smiled. The bus came to its next stop. Her accessories defined her style: Her Hermès scarf seemed to carry her up like angels’ wings. As she rose onto her blue Ferragamo pumps, the MK medallion on her handbag swayed, and the air was spiced with her perfume. She smiled at me again with what I could see now were blue, alluring eyes—and politely offered to give up her seat to me and stand until she reached her stop.
Distinguished my ***. If there is indeed a next time for the services of Daddy Ducky, I’ll take cabs.
Credit: Alan Behr