Designers have been famously cautious not to offend men’s perceptions about masculinity. The old axiom that men will not buy clothes bearing the names of women led to some novel solutions. Jhane Barnes was born Jane Barnes, but by the time men had figured that out, they were sold on her clothes—even the many who assumed from the name that they were wearing clothes designed by a man. Kate Spade’s line for men came out as Jack Spade.
Then there are the brands that started for women and have migrated successfully to selling to men. Salvatore Ferragamo may have built a reputation as the shoemaker to the women of Hollywood, but my wife’s devotion to Salvatore Ferragamo handbags is mirrored by my policy that all my business shoes come in red boxes.
When it comes to individual styles, however, the crossover path is not always easy. Late in the last century, women started wearing fitted tights. That never caught on with men, even those with fantasies of playing Robin Hood. There was some initial hesitation by men, but after women had given up on stockings and started wearing beach sandals (flip-flops) around town and just going barefoot at home, men eventually followed along. I bought my first pair of flip-flops since my age was in single digits, and no sooner did I wear them out of my building, on a late-night milk errand, than I caught my doorman trying to do his best not to stare at my toes. It was a hot night and those toes did feel rather nicely chilled by the milk fridge’s chill, so I could see that the comfy factor was indeed in play. But at the end of the day, I just have to go with the obvious: light and delicate things like thong sandals may look correct on women—but on guys: you know, those black Ferragamo loafers I am never without are looking better than ever.
Credit: Alan Behr
Photo Credit: Salvatore Ferragamo
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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
As I was crossing Fifth Avenue the other day, I found myself behind a very tall and well-dressed woman who took her strides in chic stilettos. Each time a foot hit the pavement, the leg wobbled before gaining its firm grip; and so did she strut westward: heel to the pavement, wobble, steady; next heel down, wobble, steady, and so on. Fortunately, she was young and quite fit; indeed, her calf muscles looked like prize-winning eggplants. Enter the laws of physics: the heels and soles of those shoes were undoubtedly manufactured to uniform specifications for both short women and tall ones. Assuming you are (as this lady was) over six feet tall, even if you are thin (as she was), you are putting a lot more weight on those heels and offering them a much higher center of gravity on which to balance the whole of you than would a similarly proportioned woman one foot shorter than you. Although I had to admire the lady’s determination to wear what she liked, I had to wonder if there was perhaps a fashionable alternative—Salvatore Ferragamo pumps or Tory Burch ballet flats—that would prevent every stride from looking as if it were an invitation to a trip and fall scenario. Or is it that we men, bound as we are to heels that look like horses’ hooves, cannot fully appreciate what woman are prepared to go through with their shoes and why they choose to do it?
Credit: Alan Behr