not resolvedShowing some leg:- 20/05/2012 Article in Sunday Times
Seen this on another website and wondered if any folks here had seen it or have any comments:-
Here’s a scary thought. After 2,000 years of blessedly dwindling appearances in our wardrobes, are skirts about to become a feature of everyday wear for men? There’s some compelling evidence: Marc Jacobs, a long-term man-skirt fan, wore a see-through lace Comme des Garçons dress to the Met Ball the other week, saying, “I just didn’t want to wear a tuxedo and be boring.” London’s Rick Owens store is reporting bumper sales — tantalisingly revealing that one high-profile footballer bought one last week — while Harvey Nichols claims “loads” of men are buying into the skirt trend.
On the catwalks, a puzzlingly high number of hairy-thighed fellas nobly attempted to style it out in the one thing every non-female, non-Scottish, non-attention junkie resident of the First World has spent the past two centuries trying to avoid. Did these models look nonchalant with the air whipping up their briefs? No, reader, they did not. They looked very chalant indeed. Hardly surprising, given this new breed of man-skirt includes floral numbers and some that were emblazoned with tropical birds. Others were cut above the knee. Butch.
Obviously, this isn’t the first time the fash pack has tried this gambit. Jean-Paul Gaultier and John Galliano have been hawking them for aeons, but, skirt-wise, 2012 sees the biggest man assault yet. Even Kanye West wore a Givenchy number onstage — though West, so desperate to be trendy these days, has become sartorially incontinent, so perhaps that isn’t a sign of much.
Yet I am unsure if we can write off the man-skirt thing, as we have in the past. At the least, it’s now an actual fad for braver fashion addicts, in the way that “guyliner” is still kicking around.
So, at pub-o’clock on Saturday night, I find myself standing behind my front door, shaking like a little girl. The reason I am shaking is because, like a girl, I am wearing a skirt, specifically a £1,000 Givenchy man-skirt, in which I have agreed to throw myself into the city, like fashion bait. Should I be wearing tights, I wonder? Come to think of it, is my underwear okay? The Tube station feels like a long way away.
I discover, while trying to perch on a low wall that ’coverage’ is a critical issue. An unruly swingometer is a present danger
“I’ve got a couple of skirts,” Peter Orlov, a 30-year-old City solicitor, had told me. “One is pretty much floor length, and seems to get the most attention.” Never! Anyway, he says he’s been wearing skirts for a few years and — once he mastered getting in and out of taxis — is totally comfortable. “I’ve worn them to birthday drinks, dinners, parties, whatever. I don’t think I’d wear one to Tesco, and I wouldn’t wear it to work, but other than that, why not?” They occasionally titillate, he reckons, but he believes they are no longer taboo.
“God, I hope he’s right,” I think, stepping out into the street. I’ve chosen the rest of my outfit carefully. Blokey old jumper, boots — anything to deflect from the fact there is unbroken access to my nether regions. Speaking of which, I’ve chosen the snuggest, longest, dullest pair of boxers I own. I will later discover, while trying to perch on a low wall, that “coverage” is a critical issue.
An unruly swingometer is a clear and present danger. Take note, ladies: if a man in a kilt ever boasts to you that he is going commando, chances are he wants to “accidentally” prove it.
Tackle in check, I make my way into the night. After a couple of blocks, I summon the courage to look up — and guess what? Nobody is gawping. A couple of women do a double-take, then smile. A chugger at the station says, “Nice skirt, bruv. My best mate is Scottish.” I get on the Tube to Notting Hill and get a couple of stares. But that’s it.
At my friend’s birthday party, in a cavernous white drawing room with DJ and snootily modish crowd, nobody notices I’m wearing the bloody thing. When I point it out, they’re more impressed by the fact I can afford Givenchy (I can’t, it’s on loan), than the fact that I’m surfing the frontiers of fashion. Relaxed, I actually start to like it. Aside from being too cold to hang about on the balcony and getting stabbed mid-thigh with a cigarette, it doesn’t look too bad at a dimly lit party. Possibly pissed by this point, I fancy myself a modern gladiator.
Emboldened, a few days later I take it out for a midmorning spin about town. I pop into a Starbucks, loiter at a bus stop and generally prance around trying to get a reaction. Again, nobody cares, though I don’t think the skirt looks so good in daylight. I learn a lesson women have known for years: there’s something slightly tarty about showing this much leg before lunch. I look like I’m doing the walk of shame.
Timings aside, however, skirts for men are no longer inherently shameful. Somewhere, Gaultier must be cackling with glee. The village shop or rugby-club bar might not be so blasé, but the skirt seems finally to have won, barely raising eyebrows in the big city. The only thing I really minded was the cold, and as tights are another battle altogether, I think man-skirts are best confined to summer wardrobes. Crazy as it sounds, anyone reading this who is under the age of 20 faces a real possibility that, one day in his future, he might walk into a shop and purchase a man-skirt for his summer hols. Gulp. The rest of us might have escaped just in time.
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