I struggle with this. I really do.
See, I want to be a pocket square guy. But I’m not sure what it stands for any more.
It used to be pretty clear.
Not long after I left active duty, I landed a job that required I wear a suit every day. Having never worn one, I sought guidance.
An article in the Wall Street Journal pointed me to the definitive men’s fashion guide, Dressing the Man: Mastering the Art of Permanent Fashion by Alan Flusser.
I immediately bought and read it.
What? You think I’m not going to take the Journal’s fashion advice?
Flusser said no jacket was complete without a pocket square. In fact, the suit jacket pocket was given its angled design for the express purpose of holding a handkerchief.
Without a pocket square, you’re denying your jacket its ability to realize its full potential.
Who am I to stand in the way of anything realizing its full potential?
So, I was a pocket square guy. Even though it served no useful purpose.
But it used to.
Origin stories vary, but the gist of it is that guys used to carry handkerchiefs in their pants pockets. They also carried dirty coins and pocket knives in those pockets, which often soiled the white linen squares they’d sneeze into after stuffing their nostrils full of snuff.
When breast pockets were added to men’s jackets, guys began placing their handkerchiefs in them to keep their linen clean.
Eventually, the likes of Fred Astaire and the Duke of Windsor turned the whole handkerchief-in-the-pocket thing into a fashion statement, and no proper gentleman was to be caught without one.
Indeed, well into the Twentieth Century, guys carried not one, but two handkerchiefs, “one for blowin’” and “one for showin’”.
Then the Kleenex came along, and most men ditched the one for blowin’.
And all was well.
The pocket square strode forward into succeeding decades as a symbol of “sartorial gentility,” as Flusser described it. That’s what it stood for.
Until – and herein lies my problem – the pocket square was hijacked by guys like Jimmy Johnson and Terry Bradshaw, people who clearly have no clue how to properly wear one. And they’ve nearly ruined it for the rest of us.
There are rules. Foremost, you do not match your pocket square directly with your tie. Ever.
Go ahead and mismatch your belt and shoes. But, for the love of God, please do not be so careless and lazy as to make the colors and patterns adorning your pocket exact duplicates of those tied around your neck.
I worked briefly for a guy in the Pentagon who did exactly that.
He proudly explained that he bought matching tie-and-handkerchief sets. That was bad enough. But, even worse, his pocket squares weren’t complete pieces of fabric. Rather, they were composed of small, perfectly symmetrical, folded triangles glued to a piece of hard plastic. They were the pocket square equivalent of clip-on ties.
I should have had him arrested. No person with such poor judgment should have had anything to do with our national security.
No doubt, it takes skill to pull off the pocket square.
It should lend an air of both refinement and indifference to its wearer. Done right, the pocket square should appear an afterthought – albeit one that perfectly completes an ensemble.
It should not look forced or contrived. Like Terry Bradshaw’s.
Members of the Royal Family get it right.
The late Prince Phillip, Duke of Edinburgh, always stepped out looking like . . . well, royalty. He perfectly combined the stripes of his shirt, the tweed of his jacket, the spots of his tie, and the silken hues of his pocket square.
Now, in fairness, if The Crown’s portrayal of the House of Windsor is accurate, Phillip likely had an army of valets, footmen, and Savile Row tailors at his disposal to ensure his combinations were consistently perfect. But that shouldn’t dissuade us commoners from striving for similar sartorial glory.
Unless you consider my other problem.
I don’t want anyone to think I’m a dandy.
Why? Because I’ve spent my entire adult life in the military, manufacturing, and heavy industry. I’ve worked regularly with dudes who turned wrenches on large, dangerous pieces of equipment.
I need such people to take me seriously in order to make a living.
Do diesel mechanics, welders, and lathe operators take pocket square-wearers seriously?
I don’t know. But they sure as shit don’t take dandies seriously.
And we know that pocket squares, in their current form, were born of dandiness.
Hell, one of London’s leading tailor shops, that boasts an extensive collection of men’s fine handkerchiefs, is even named “Cad and Dandy.”
There it is – dandy – right in the name!
So if a pocket square makes you a dandy in the blue-collar world you occupy, is it worth it? Even if you find Alan Flusser’s logic as compelling as I do?
Pete’s a practical guy, as you know. So I put the question to him.
Does the whole handkerchief/one-for-blowin’/Fred Astaire/one-for-showin’/Alan Flusser/Terry Bradshaw/Duke of Edinburgh/dandiness question weigh on him as much as it does me?
“Nah,” he said. “I just keep a roll of toilet paper in my truck.”
So there you have it.
Like I said, I want to be a pocket square guy.
But, for the time being, I’ll do without.
And I’m sure that would disappoint Alan Flusser.
Just as it does me.