So many outfits in so many shapes and colours; so many ruched tight trousers, or legs encased in flowing chiffon; sharp jackets in claret or blue velvet; frilled, slit skirts and shirts with enormous bows. Yes, men have worn all these since the 14th century, until the day when it was decreed that the male sex, when socialising, should no longer have fun dressing up.
Now, the party season is heaven for a woman’s wardrobe. It is the time to get out that slightly outré dress you haven’t worn all year, or that interestingly shaped top in some gloriously indeterminate colour. Then you may curl your hair, douse yourself in aromatherapy oil made from Moroccan roses and step out in silver high-heeled shoes.
If the party is dull, you can watch the other women and either curl your lip or stand in breathtaking envy that your best friend nabbed your favourite dress from a Sloane Street boutique. The one you couldn’t afford. What opportunities for unalloyed vanity; for there is no woman on earth who isn’t vain about her appearance. But what, these days, of the men?
There they stand, dressed exactly the same in navy or dark suits — dinner jackets at best. They know each morning exactly what they are going to wear and how their hair will look. Any man who steps clear of the dreary dress code is called a poof or a poseur. Yet, is that fair? None would have dared call Charles II a homosexual, or Edward IV or the Prince Regent. Why is it that in the past it was acceptable — no, common — for men to outdress women, bedecking themselves like peacocks on parade?
It can have nothing to do with any growing feeling that men should appear more ‘masculine’.
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