True Prep

by Lisa Birnbach

  Clothes can cost any amount, but they must fit. Many a preppy has an item from a vintage shop or a lost-and-found bin at the club that was tailored and looks incredibly chic.

  Do not fret if cashmere is too pricey. Preppies love cotton and merino wool sweaters.

  We do not wear our cell phones or BlackBerrys suspended from our belts. (That includes you, President Obama.)

  Real suspenders are attached with buttons. We do not wear the clip versions.

  Learn how to tie your bow tie. Do not invest in clip-ons.

  Preppies are considerate about dressing our age. It is for you, not for us.

  Men, if you made the mistake of buying Tevas or leather sandals, please give them to Goodwill.

  You may, however, wear flip-flops to the beach if your toes are presentable. Be vigilant!

  Pareos (sarongs) are for the beach, not for the mall. (Even if it is near the beach.)

  Riding boots can be worn by non-riders; cowboy boots may be worn by those who have never been astride a horse. However, cowboy hats may not be worn by anyone who isn’t technically a cowboy or cowgirl.

  You may wear a Harvard sweatshirt if you attended Harvard, your spouse attended Harvard, or your children attend Harvard. Otherwise, you are inviting an uncomfortable question.

  If your best friend is a designer (clothes, accessories, jewelry), you should wear a piece from his or her collection. If his or her taste and yours don’t coincide, buy a piece or two to show your loyal support, but don’t wear them.

  Every preppy woman has a friend who is a jewelry designer.

  No man bags.

  Preppies don’t perm their hair.

  Preppy men do not believe that comb-overs disguise anything.

  You can never go wrong with a trench coat.

  Sweat suits are for sweating. You can try to get away with wearing sweats to carpool, to pick up the newspaper, or to drive to the dump, but last time you were at the dump, the drop-dead-attractive widower from Maple Lane was there, too.

  And finally:

  ABOVE: A frayed chino cuff is the pant equivalent of a trusted friend. BELOW: Ditto the collar of your favorite dress shirt.

  As you know by now, it’s a brand-new old world. Meaning, of course, that showing one’s age is not a bad thing, necessarily. Observe the threads hanging down from Jeremy’s khakis. Using our prep carbon 21 (our forensic dating isotope), we can deduce that these trousers (100 percent cotton, from the look of things) are at least eight years old and appear as if they’ve been thrown into the washing machine approximately forty-four times per calendar year. The elongated threads wave freely from the correct cuff. There is no need to “train” them or snip them. They are not embarrassing, and no, these trousers need not be replaced. (Nor are they worn for city business appointments, but Jeremy knows that.)

  Look closely: Elliot’s collar shows wear. But of course it also is softer than a new shirt, is more comfortable than a new shirt, and presents itself as an old friend in the closet. Most people would not even notice the way the top layer of fabric has separated from the underlayer. You can continue buying shirts all you want—each year the stripes become bolder, the checks become checkier—but you can also wear the oldies with impunity. (And under a sportcoat—and especially with rakishly long hair—no one would notice.) The gentle parting of the fabric only demonstrates to the trained eye that you are no Johnny-come-lately.

  Hotchkiss and Yale man Gerald Murphy—artist, F. Scott Fitzgerald muse, and heir to Mark Cross—first discovered the jaunty appeal of the striped sailor top. Summering in Cap d’Antibes in 1923, he wore his Marseilles market find so well that soon such fellow beachcombers as Pablo Picasso and Coco Chanel were sporting them, too. Then came devoted Americaphile the Duke of Windsor, who wore his even during his brief reign as King of England while yachting with soon-to-be-twice-divorced girlfriend Wallis in 1937. After World War Two, the striped top went through its rebellious phase, worn by the likes of Jean Seberg, Andy Warhol, and Joan Baez before settling down as favored prep unisex garment during the 1970s. Its next incarnation, embodying fashion with a capital F, came courtesy of Jean Paul Gaultier. With its navy-on-cream stripes, the iconic Breton fisherman’s sweater is as significant a part of the French clothing vocabulary as the beret.

  —CAROLINE RENNOLDS MILBANK

  St. Catherine’s, Bennington

  If, in 1980, you had whispered to a few friends that within the next few decades, America would elect a thin, black, preppy basketball-playing lawyer to be President, they would have laughed at you and exhaled in your face, inside the restaurant or club where you were sitting. And if you predicted that one day, all our children would have little portable phones stuck in their pockets so that they could not answer us when we called them from our little phones, we would have, again, exhaled in your face—indoors—and said you were talking science fiction.

  Still, to our minds nothing is more sci-fi than the fact that preppies in the twenty-first century all wear the unnatural fibers we collectively refer to as “fleece.” We always thought our reliance on natural “guaranteed-to-wrinkle” fibers was our right and our trademark. If it’s hot or humid, we’d just roll up our all-cotton long-sleeved shirts. But now we wear polyester fleece, and its offspring, recycled water bottles.

  THE REVOLUTION began in 1981, at a company then called Malden Mills, in Lawrence, Massachusetts, manufacturer of textiles, including the wool for bathing suits around 1910–20, and that for uniforms in World War Two. A place like Malden Mills is populated by textile engineers, who spitball, “mess around with fabrics,” and then refine, according to spokesman Nate Simmons. They work collaboratively with clothing manufacturers, as they did in this case, with Patagonia. What came off the looms in the early ’80s was pure synthetic, and it was soft, quick-wicking and quick-drying, and machine-washable. It did not fade, and it changed the wardrobes of athletes forever. Its Malden Mills’ name was Polarfleece; its Patagonia name was Synchilla.

  Throughout the 1980s Malden Mills continued to invent new versions of its fleece and to make constant improvements. And the fleece was picked up by The North Face, L.L. Bean, and Lands’ End, among others. In 1991, the fleece was renamed Polartec, and Polartec 100, Polartec 200, Polartec 300, and Polartec 1000 (windproof) were introduced.

  As each iteration came to market, new ones were being tested in the wings by the “athlete teams” used by Patagonia, REI, The North Face, et al., as well as by Malden Mills itself. But if you think that the corporate culture at Malden Mills (renamed Polartec in 2007) is all outdoorsy and people roughing it, you’d be mistaken. “It’s really smart fiber and fabric people who love to make amazing fabrics,” says Simmons. And let us not forget that Polartec continues to manufacture in the United States, employing approximately 700 in its Lawrence headquarters, and another 300 or so worldwide, as the fabrics are popular the world over.

  “Our athlete advisory board is getting stuff now for 2012,” says Simmons in early 2010. The board is made up of specialized “niche names,” well known within their worlds but unknown to most—for example, “the top telemark skier and a well-known adventure racer, who is very credible.” But don’t you have to test the materials on ordinary people who have to work outdoors in terrible weather? “Our biggest test group is the military, and soldiers give us feedback. The military pays us to do research, and when they pick a product, we work with manufacturers who are approved vendors.” Every single step of the manufacturing process must be approved and must occur within the United States. Simmons says that a new yarn, Unifi, is loomed in North Carolina, shipped in trucks to Massachusetts, sewn into garments in Michigan, and then packed and sent from Virginia Beach. Polartec is proud of all the jobs they’ve created or saved here.

  Some preppies have worried that their zippered tops originated in bottles of things we do not drink, like grape or orange soda, or diet root beer. Fortunately, Polartec is using “single-use clear plastic water bottles.” Phew.

  And des
pite entries in Polartec’s timeline which are utterly un- prep, i.e., “Polartec introduces biomimicry fabrics that imitate animal fur, and body-mapping fabrics that seamlessly vary density, loft, and breathability,” the company still makes textiles with merino wool, among other fibers. “Sometimes wool just works better.”

  It just seems wrong to have to go to work on Friday. There are only a few hours before the weekend officially begins (at noon, Prep Standard Time), and it will take the morning to get packed, finalize plans, have coffee with Pip and then get on the road. Yes, you are correct in assuming that what the world regards as “summer hours” we regard as “prep hours.” Friday afternoons year-round are redundant. They are useless. We cannot concentrate. They’re just like the second half of senior year of high school after you’ve been admitted to Middlebury.

  Thus, a wise person invented Casual Friday to raise employee morale in bridging this most jarring of weekly transitions. Many give credit to the carelessly dressed denizens of the dot-com bubble, which, before it burst, left tieless shirts and khakis in its wake.

  One doesn’t have to work in the high-tech world to appreciate a dressed-down workday. And in fact, many people in service industries choose to dress casually when meeting with customers isn’t on the day’s schedule. In truth, preppies are well supplied with Casual Fridayabilia. This is what we wear when we’re not at the office, anyway. Dressing this way makes us more comfortable, as we recognize the sweater with the hole at the elbow as an ally, or enjoy our shoes even more when we’re not wearing socks with them.

  Even schools have adopted Casual Friday into their sartorial agenda. Schools with dress codes or uniforms either routinely lift them or charge students $1 to wear blue jeans on Fridays, with the money going to charity.

  Is Casual Thursday next?

  Sometime in the 1980s the cart began leading the horse. Don’t look at us; preppies were certainly not to blame. Fashion followers mistakenly thought the logo was the point. (This is when we would write LOL, except we loathe LOL.)

  Logos have gotten a lot of people into a bit of trouble: Those who are tempted to re-create them without proper license; those who go in search of the great counterfeits by traveling to Southeast Asia, New York’s Upper East Side’s street vendors, or Chinatown, or by trawling the Web; those whose original work has been stolen. But worst of all, wearing a logo-laden outfit or accessory points to the wearer’s confusion about his or her identity or insecurity. If you think you are being ironic, think again.

  Here’s the rule of thumb: The first logo that preppies loved was the Lacoste crocodile (1). It belonged to the French tennis star Réné Lacoste, whose nickname was Le Crocodile. (See W. Averell Harriman) It was an authentic, since he himself wore la chemise in 1927, after having been the top tennis player in the world in 1926 and 1927. (He won seven Grand Slam singles titles in France, Britain, and the United States. In 1961 he also invented the first metal tennis racquet, which was sold in this country as the T-2000 by Wilson.)

  The shirts, made by La Société Chemise Lacoste, became an international sensation in 1933. Initially made just for men, they had long tails, green (always) crocodiles of 2.8 centimeters width, and embroidered labels with the sizes in French: Petit Patron, Patron, and Grand Patron. And since 1933, the fabric, called “Jersey petit piqué,” has not changed. Up until that time, tennis was played in long sleeves. The shirts were made only in white until 1951, since it was the sole color one could wear at Wimbledon, the French Open, and the U.S. Open. The United States is the largest consumer of Lacoste shirts, which have been available in children’s sizes and women’s sizes since 1959 and the 1960s, respectively.

  Fred Perry, the British tennis champion of the 1930s, introduced his laurel-wreath logo (2) onto white polo shirts in 1952 (a few years after inventing the sweatband). Fred Perry shirts were successful immediately.

  Brooks Brothers introduced its Golden Fleece logo (3) as its company’s symbol in 1850, but for casual sport shirts, it sold the chemise Lacoste until the 1960s. Then Brooks Brothers made its own men’s polo-styled shirts with the golden fleece embroidered on them. These shirts were more subtle than the others as the logos were embroidered in the same colors as the shirts that bore them. And until 1969, the sheep suspended by golden ribbons was made only in men’s sizes.

  Ralph Lauren was already making menswear when, in 1971, he embroidered a little man astride a polo pony (4) on the cuffs of some women’s shirts. The ponies, 11/4" high, moved onto his many-colored cotton polo shirts for men in 1972. The logo, now one of the world’s best known, sometimes grows up to 5 inches high (“Big Pony”) and sometimes stays small.

  Vineyard Vines’ little pink whale (5) appeared in 1998 (see), and so far, the whale has shown admirable restraint in staying 1.05 inches wide by .43 inch high (as per their universal style guide).

  When Gucci, Fendi, Dior, Chanel, Louis Vuitton, and then Prada began to understand the strong appeal their logos offered, they went wild. Gone were the subtle stripes, woven ribbons, tiny metal trademarks, and interior decoration that had been prized. Now the logos took growth hormones, and there seemed nothing too big or crass to sell. Gucci sold jeans with its logo plastered all over them, as did Dior. Then came some Chanel bags with logos larger than Karl Lagerfeld’s head. The clientele for these designer goods changed, and the original customers had to move on to more discreet brands like Bottega Veneta, Tod’s, Loro Piana, and VBH. Today’s customer is more discerning. Removing logos has become something of a hobby for purists.

  When Juicy Couture arrived, emblazoning bottoms with the word “juicy” on its pricey sweatpants, we were dismayed that our daughters thought they wanted them. We steered them back to sanity. We believe that the Juicy Couture tracksuit phenomenon signals the end of civilization as we know it. Nothing less.

  Berry and Daisy do not like to go shopping anymore. The stores are crowded and noisy. The sales staff doesn’t know if they can order your size from another branch. That Indian-style tunic looks shopworn. Wouldn’t it be nicer if you could have some privacy, work with a salesperson who is familiar with your wardrobe, have a glass of chardonnay or an espresso, and relax?

  Welcome to the trunk show. Here, in a lovely hotel suite or somebody’s lovely living room (you have the same taste in window treatments!) is all of next season’s offerings (and a few special items no one will see after this week). Trunk shows, once the domain of specialty shops importing a famous designer to the New York suburbs (like Dallas), is now a cottage business (in the Newport, Rhode Island, sense of the word “cottage”) all over our world.

  PAPO D’ANJO is an exquisite (but not too precious) line of children’s clothing made in Portugal and sold in the living rooms of nice mummies all across the country. Designed by Catherine Connor Monteiro de Barros, they are the clothes that remind us of how our mummies dressed us when we were children. “I like children to look like children.” (And weren’t we children for a bit longer than children get to be now?) “I had clothes made for my [four] children when we lived in Portugal,” says Wisconsin-born Monteiro de Barros, “and I was a little bored. I did the cliché thing of doing children’s clothes as a business. My first show was on 72nd and Madison at the apartment of an Andover classmate in 1995. We sold $10,000 worth of merchandise,” she says with a laugh, “but I don’t give up.”

  Peter Pan collars, cotton piqué, Liberty of London prints, and now a first: a collaboration with Liberty and MacIntosh to make some great rubberized raincoats for little J.R. and Alison. Many mummies volunteer to run the twice-yearly trunk shows in their homes, both to provide the right clothes to all their friends and to earn deep discounts on their Papo clothes for their own children. “It’s a cult,” says more than one at the big spring show at New York’s Hotel Carlyle. Prices range from $14 for a headband to $229 for a smocked Liberty party dress.

  Cathryn Collins’s I PEZZI DIPINTI sells lots of cashmere, silk slippers, jewelry, boots, and one-of-a-kind furs. Her prices range from $150 t
o $45,000. Yes, she also sells daily from her SoHo office, over the phone, and via e-mail, but twice a year in London, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Jackson Hole, Detroit, and New York, she sells in person “as an excuse to communicate with all our clients.” While the trunk shows bring in only a fraction of her “3,500-plus real shopping clients, hundreds more shop around the show. It is always a vigorous period of activity.” She hosts all of the trunk shows herself. These intense two- to three-day spurts represent “fifty percent of the year’s business.” Collins’s hotel sales, like Papo’s, are about real buying, not eating, drinking, or schmoozing. Otherwise, customers call to ask what’s new—her Web site is not an e-commerce site, and there is no catalogue.

  William Rondino more or less invented the fashion trunk show in 1980, when he started the CARLISLE COLLECTION, a kind of Tupperware party for Junior Leaguers. In the ’70s, Rondino, a designer on Seventh Avenue for various companies, had the idea of designing a line that he could sell himself without depending on retailers. He launched his first collection in 1982 by inviting friends of his who were past presidents or “sustainers” of Junior Leagues “around the country, who were organized and had lots of tentacles. They weren’t the principal breadwinners in their families; no one needed to do it.” Ninety-seven “consultants” received the entire wardrobe, “say, 200 pieces. We made 100 sample sets, and said, ‘It’s yours for a week.’ ” The consultants, “influencers with social clout and pull,” then invited their friends over for a look. Carlisle developed a devoted following, and word of mouth brought more consultants. That’s how Mummy earned her quiet six figures per annum, though her family did have to adjust to her new career: no dinner on the table for a week, no living room to hang out in, and so forth.