Building a Uniform

A What and Why for Everyday Wear

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One of my favorite parts of writing fiction is creating a look for a character. It’s also one of my favorite emblems as a reader: is anything of greater symbolic value than what someone wears? Speech, maybe—an argot, a catchphrase. Jay Gatsby checks both boxes: pink suit and “old sport.” Holden Caulfield with his red hunting cap and all those “phonies.” Film after film by Wes Anderson. One of my characters wears three-piece suits to his job as a high school teacher. Anyone who has attended an American public school will know this is a marker. Another character is adorned in chic bohemian dresses and floats through life like the little birds stitched into the fluttering fabric. 

Personally, I’ve spent years working my way toward a uniform. Well, uniform may be too rigid, though I do like the connotation, and I appreciate that it stems from a sense of self. Mine: Oxford cotton button downs, sport coats, diagonally striped ties, chinos and corduroys, loafers. Ivy League casual, I call it. It isn’t color-specific, though my wife would be quick to point out I favor navy—“oh, how shocking, another blue shirt.” I know there’s nothing original about it; it’s mostly J.Crew and L.L. Bean. And many would consider it a bit anachronistic for today’s athleisure. But the only trend I’m interested in setting is sparking an interest in what one wears and why he wears it. 

For me, I know part of the motivation is my profession—all that reading of Austen and Fitzgerald and Hemingway and Baldwin, to say nothing of Red Smith, Tom Wolfe, and Gay Talese. Of wanting a certain look, an aesthetic that feels both professional and artistic. But what else determines our uniforms?

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By the end of The Great Gatsby it’s near impossible to feel sympathy for any of the characters. Even for Gatsby, whom Nick says is better than the whole lot of them—which isn’t saying much—and who is murdered on a floatie in his pool the one time he takes a swim all summer long (and if I’m ruining that plot point for you, I feel no remorse; you should have read it by now). But if you ever do feel sympathy for Gatsby, it might be in chapter six. Tom Buchanan and the Phelpses stop by Gatsby’s place after an afternoon of riding horses. They really only want something to drink, and to be nosey, but then Mrs. Phelps extends an invitation to Gatsby for dinner, a seemingly polite but ultimately faux offer; no one there expects him to accept because they all know she doesn’t mean it. And yet Gatsby does just that. Enthusiastically does just that, and then he runs off to get his car so he can join them because he doesn’t have any horses. 

It’s a cringe moment for the reader; you feel embarrassed for Gatsby, and you know that no amount of money would have helped him. He simply isn’t part of their world. And he never will be. 

I’ve had my share of such cringe moments. Where to put the napkin, what fork to use, shoes to wear, how to tie a tie or make a toast, giving a public speech. So I started reading up on it. 

Several years back I stumbled on a series of books by John Bridges about being a gentleman. I know that can be a rather mannered and loaded word, but I think the books are great. Super helpful, covering everything from getting dressed, going out to dinner, what to say in difficult situations, throwing a party, setting the table, conducting oneself in public. Etiquette stuff.

“A gentleman never makes himself the center of attention,” Bridges says in the original text How to be a Gentleman. “His goal is to make life easier, not just for himself but for his friends, his acquaintances, and the world at large. Because he is a gentleman, he does not see this as a burden.” I’d say this is my second reason. 

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More than either of these, though, I hope my desire for a uniform arises from something more meaningful; I think it really comes down to believing that the way I dress reflects how I feel about the people I am with and the situations I am in. That what I wear communicates all that. 

The final motivator, though, which is also possibly the first one: I simply like clothes. 

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When it comes to building a uniform, I’d say these are my rules: 

• I want the people I’m with to know I take them seriously. 

• I want to look professional and feel confident. 

• I want my clothes to be cleaned and ironed. 

• I want to enjoy thinking about what I’ll wear the next day, but I also don’t want to think about it for too long. 

• It should be the highest quality I can afford at the time. No fast fashion. 

• Dressing seasonally makes the weather more bearable, and more exciting. 

• I don’t want to be cold. 

A more modern take on it all is Men and Manners: Essays, Advice and Considerations by David Coggins. My copy is thoroughly highlighted.

Lastly, I’d love to hear from you all: what’s your uniform and how’d you come by it? 

As always, thanks for reading.