Fashion’s Craze and Crazy Fashions

Evening Star, Issue 23143, 17 December 1938, Page 15

Fashion’s Craze and Crazy Fashions

You notice I use the more homely phrase, men and women, for to my mind there is something grand in being called a man, rather than a gentleman, and) a woman, that • is, the real woman, should prefer to he thus described. When we speak of a woman, of womanliness, we immediately conjure up a vision of someone who is .tender, warm-hearted, homely, and affectionate—and mother. Yes, better by far to be called a woman than ’ a lady. A woman can always be both a woman and a lady, but there are many so-called ladies who lack the attributes of womanliness already mentioned. But this is getting away from xny subject—fashions—and why we wear the clothes we do. You know when I walk down the street on a hot summer’s day and see the light, airy frocks of the ladies—beg pardon, the womem—l envy them their ..coolness and freedom of movement.'. Here am I, I say to myself, . trussed up like an Egyptian mummy, shoes,''pants, a tight-fitting waistcoat, with the. correct number of buttons ,v -on it; a heavy coat that is padded with horsehair and what-not, to make me look broad-shouldered whether. 1 ,■ am or not. And to crown all my imbecility I wear a stiffly-starched: collar that nearly strangles me and makes me feel just about a.s irritable as a mere human can be. I feel at war with nil my fellows. It cramps my style. I poke a" finger down my neck and jerk savagely at the offending article, grow] ,a pithy .word or two under.iny,. breath', and- feel relieved for—just about lOsec! _ .... Men make the fashions for the women •to wear, so I’m told. Who makes the fashion for the men? _1 should sav imbeciles who should be in Bedlam. "So the women have the best end of the stick so far as lightness, airiness, coolness are Whether their frocks are semi,dianiianous or not they look delightfully, cool, and I envy them. : SUGGESTIONS FOR MEN. What would happen to me if I attempted to institute a new vogue for men —something that would make them feel less like elongated sausages jammed into, a skin? I’d ho dubbed a crank. It’s all very well someone saying. “ Oh, , no, you wouldn’t.’’ Wouldn’t I! And my own kind would be the first to condemn me, with the woman of fashion a close runner-up. What would she say if the young man behind the counter who cut her off that 4Jyds of dress length served: her in loose-fitting grey slacks, tenuis shirt, and a comfortably-fitting sports jacket of Marina blue? She would say it was simply disgraceful, . and complaifi to the manager. Of course, she would!. , ■ ■ That’s the. type of dress, or some- . thing' akin to it, which I would select for comfort and coolness, in place of my present straight waistcoat, heavy coat, and throttling collar And how would I faro if I couldn’t induce my suffering fellowmen to be _ equally as informal as myself? Imagine_ my going to interview some sober-sided head of a big business organisation so at-tired-—or in some such wrap as Brutus wore when he made a stab at Cmsar! I’d get short shrift and ultimately—the sack. .

However, I’ve long since given tip in despair the thought of ever being able to trot round town on business bent as a comfortable, sensible human should. Oh.ves, I know you’ll say: “You’re a slave to fashion.” Of course I am. I’m like all the rest of my brethren. I daren’t make a move without consulting the conventions, And so I fry and frizzle while sweet femininity sweeps gaily: along in lofty,; cool disdain. Far from men showing any desire — that is, the great majority of them, mind you—to deviate from the strictly formal mode of attire, they are getting worse. What _ with tartan ties and bottle green suits, with, an attempt to introduce pancake-hats, I begin to find myself daily getting more old fashioned —obsolete; is the word. I refuse to look like a draught-board, though, but that is where my courage ends. I secretly despise myself and think of my vaunted manliness. Courage—it takes more than courage to fly in the teeth of convention.

Being a man, and. I hope, a gentleman, I’ve dealt with the men first. Never fear. I’ve got quite a lot of random thoughts about the women and their slavish devotion to la mode. If it comes to a point of fact, too, women are more tied down by the whims and dictates of fashion than men. A man may wear an old suit—perhaps a bit shabby at the cuffs, but clean. He might have the old-fashioned buttonhole in the lapel of his coat, or a button too many on his waistcoat. The cuffs of his trousers may be too narrow to suit the stricter follower or fashion. He may be considered none-to-well dressed, but he will pass muster. His brethren may pity his parsimony, or, possibly, his inability to finance a new suit, but they won’t pick him to pieces. He may walk down the street and still not feel wholly embarrassed. WOMAN, THE FASHION PLATE. Not so the women. Among birds, the male is generally the dandy. There are. a few dandies among the human males—who strut about showing off their plumage. In the main, though, the woman “ carries the palm.” She is

The Blind Following the Blind Slavish Devotion to Modes of Dress A Pot Pourri of Random Thoughts ' ’ ;" [By the Round-about Man.] This isn’t a ; story. It'is’ simply a pot pourri of random thoughts, those errant ones, half-formed that flit through one’s mind at iodd moments. It .‘deals with dress, or,,more strictly, fashion -. on Wliat we wear and why we wear it. I often wonder if we are becoming slaves to fashion, instead of being merely sensible men and women who dress for warmth and comfort, and a little self-analysis will do no harm.

the fashion plate. Month by month she slavishly follows the modes «f the moment. If she doesn’t do so she is the target for all eyes—feminine ones, If she does, she still remains the target for all eyes—masculine and feminine! So women thus spend considerable time

and thought upon their dress. Firstly, because their sisters pick them to pieces if they don’t, and, secondly, because of the sub-conscious desire to attract the attention and admiration of the male. That appears to be the whole thing’ in a nutshell. As a mere male, 1 am sometimes fairly bewildered with the kaleidoscopic change in women's fashions. Sometimes the skirt" is long, sometimes short—and -sonfetinM#,. thejrrjv just fifty-fifty. But what aindses rae‘ is the slavish manner in which iorae women, in spite of figure or lack of it, follow the dictates of Dame Fashion. You know what I mean —short legs, thick legs, thin legs. It’s all the same. Suitability, with some, does not seem to be a consideration. Being a man, I cannot help noticing these things, but my gentlemanly instincts prompt mo not to comment further. What a subject for a cartoonist, though. Fair, fat, and forty, with short skirts! This phase of woman’s dress, however, gives her the least food for thought. Many and varied are the intricacies of her complete toilet. I don’t profess to know all the secrets, but the wonder is they don’t get a headache thinking and planning it all. Conversely, I can . understand why most of a woman’s apparent waking thoughts are centred on dress. Yon may have noticed 1 said “ apparent waking thoughts.” That for a reason, for I do believe there are quite a few of the gentler sex who, intellectually, get beyond clothes. SHOES—AND STOCKINGS, Take women’s shoes,- for instance, from flat,- broad-toed brogues (for the few) to the very high-heeled monstrosities which • give the 'wearer the appearance of walking on her toes. There arc so many designs and colours that femininity must get a heartache sorting out the requisite type and colour to go with her latest costume. In summer they have snakeskin ones, lattice-work ones, and some with nothing moro than a strip or two of material to hold them on to the feet—glorified Roman sandals of the Caesarian period. And, too, some accentuate their footwear by going stockingless—

and then cap it all by painting their too nails a rose pink. Think of tho ill-spent minutes and hours. Their great-grandmothers would turn in their graves did they but know of this waste of time—tlie hussies. Likewise, tho hands—manicuring finger nails. Little bottles of this and that, with files and innumerable gadgets, the younger brigade who mustn’t really soil their hands (and, incidentally, let poor mother always do the washing up> spend half an evening polishing, filing, painting. But let us talk about clothes and return to that all-important garment, the stocking. Screwing up my courage, I timorously inquired at the stocking counter of a big firjn the other day just how many varieties and colours there were to be had—iu stockings. forty-three colours. The young lady behind the counter, with the problem of stockings at her linger tips, rattled off a list of colours till mv head fairly swam. I had to halt her to write some of them down. In the space of a few moments I had pencilled down 43! Forty-three colour names, but to the mere male the humorous part is they all represent one colour— brown ! Imagine the feminine

fashion plate referring to her stockings as plain brown. How much _ nicer honeydow, allspice, cocktail, French mule, poach glow, noontoiie, rendezvous, crash tone, angelskin, swanky, tan blush, coronet, flaming-youth, or tishan, to mention but a few. Hut the colour that tickled my imagination was night’nday. Not night and day but n.i.g.h.t’n.d.a.y. There's not a doubt manufacturers must nay someone with a big imagination a Dig salary to trot out all these new names. Perhaps they spend sleepless nights pondering over some new catchy name to foist on to unsuspecting women. Says leading Miss 1938 to second-leading Miss 1938, “what do you think of my new ‘autumn glow’ stockings, my dearr_ Sounds much nicer than just plain fawn or near brown. • .. Dear mo, aren’t stockings an allimportant topic of conversation, query—and investigation. When two fashion-plates pass one another, despite the restrictions the designation “ lady ” places upon them, they surreptitiously take stock of one another —from the sole of the foot to the crown of the hat. A WHIRLIGIG OF COLOUR. Colours—what a world of worry must bo conveyed in that little word—nearly as much in selecting the designer to cut the frock. Plain red, white, blue, pink, greenj brown, or black simply aren’t. We talk of the poetical license of Tennyson, Shakespeare, and other great men whose wizardry with woids has given us music in verse. The modern music in colour-names, though, to my mind, is equally entrancing. No wonder the women insist on the latest shades. What matter u it is last year’s fabric under a new name. It is the name that counts. The poetic beauty of those names. If I were a poet I might rhapsodise. Listen— Nanking Blue, Honey Gold, Yi istana. Dusky Rose. Aren’t they charming. The first gives away its own secret, the second is Tight brown, the third a light violet, and the.fourth a cross between a fawn and a pink. , Turning to another manufacturer s colours, though, we get more inspiring names for the same identical colours. For instance —Azure, Sunrise, Apple, Hyacinth, Sahara. Biskra, Argent, Acier, Puritan, Lupine, Cactus, Naples. Pimpernel, Lucifer, Paris, and a host of others, mostly French; but not being a French scholar I’m not going to commit myself. However, you see what I mean by the music and poetrv of colour names. What does “ Lucifer imply? Something bright, something gay? Exactly, it is a brilliant rod. Possibly initiated femininity might contradict' me and say it is a scarlet. Well, if so, I stand corrected. With “ Cactus ” we get the implication of green, and such is the colour associated with that name. For my part though, I always associate the name with something prickly—and I shouldn’t like my wife to say she was getting a “ cactus ” dress. I’d much jprefer she chose “ azure ” (symbolic of the sea, white sails, and gently following breeze) or “ Pimpernel,” the scarlet rascal. Honestly, I think the women frown more, and lose more sleep, over choosing colours than anything else. I often marvel, too, at the infinite patience shown by shop assistants, suavely and with a stoicism usually attributed to those of the East, unrolling bolt after bolt of material for some super-critical woman to view and feel. More often than not his-labour is in vain, for: “ You know, that really isn’t quite the shade I want.” Slur thanks him sweetlv and glides on. '‘You’ .see, it’s all a very great responsibility for “my lady,” for she has to please me—and herself. Possibly I should put myself last!

And, yon see, when selecting material for a dress tho woman has to bear in mind her whole attire—everything has to blendj synchronise, as it were—like the sitting room carpet with the curtains—or the wallpaper. She has to consider those stockings just purchased, those gloves in their folder at home, and, you know, “ it really is very exasperating, this frock will mean a new hat. There’s no end to the expense.” And if she’s married she’ll say, when poor hubby asks why, “ Goodness me, I’ve had this a long time,” and appear quite hurt, until he kisses her and tells her to go and buy a really latest model one! MODES IN HEADWEAR. Those hats! What monstrosities some of them are One might paraphrase Omar and say, “ And that, inverted bowl, we call a—hat.” Some are thin, tapering, cone-shaped things’, i shut my eyes and see pictures of the head-dress of the women, of darkest Africa. I am firmly convinced that designers of hats are casting about them to peoples of the inferior races for inspiration. A short while ago it was necklets and bracelets and whatnots of glass beads—of every conceivable shape, size, and colour. Our women were then beginning to look like twin sisters to Hottentots. “ Gaudy trinkets, forsooth,” you say. “ They wore verybecoming.” You know, it would be a poor old world if we wore all of one mind And when women have solved the problem of what to wear they first of all (or is it last or mid-between) start on the biggest problem of all—how tho hair must be dressed. She has a permanent wave, or, to use a modern expression, “ a perm.” A perm—how I hate that word. It sounds like a cross between a sperm whale and a bottle of microbes from a research laboratory. One hears, women who pride themselves on speaking correct English talking of “ having a perm.” As for, the flappers, the}’ chatter about thcii K next “perm ” as they travel to and from work in the tram cars. And the hours a week that are spent (and despite the “ perms,” mark youi on titivating up the hair night and morning, to say nothing of the powders, lotions, shampoos, hairs, pins, clips, and fasteners, etc., is enough to make the angels weep. And as the problem of the hair follows the problem of the dress, so follows the one of facia! nmke-up. Oh. yes it does. You needn’t deny it. Some openly and unashamedly lipstick rouge and powder their way back to beauty in tho city eating houses after tho tirosoma task of satisfying the pangs of

hunger have been attended to. And most of the stray curls the women are forever endeavouring to tuck back under their hats are imaginary ones I thank my lucky stars long hair for men went out of fashion like ruffles and powdered wigs many moons ago. Possibly the hirsute growths that adorned the* faces of men of last century were a revulsion from that period. Is the male drifting back to wigs and fopperies again. Last century a beard was the insignia of manhood, and many a timorous youth spent anxious moments before a looking glass searching for the first soft down on his cheek. In that age, too, long luxurious hair was a woman’s crowning glory. So the fashions change, and blindly we follow them. But are we any the worse off for that. I think not. At least, I hope not. At any rate, bless the ladies (I beg your pardon, the women) ; we wouldn’t have them other than they arc.