Uniform style
The eternal quest to stop making decisions.
As questions go, my friend’s was superficially pretty innocuous: “Hey Luke—what product do you use in your hair?”
“Patricks M2,” I replied, followed quickly by, “That’s opened a can of worms.”
I have what may generously be described as “newsreader hair.” It’s unruly and headstrong (pun fully intended). Left to its own devices, it could walk away when I’m not looking. And when I went through a mullet phase in the mid-1980s, it began curling upward at the back in such an arc I thought it would eventually crest the top of my head and become a visor.
In any case, it’s hair that requires taming or I risk looking like a cross between Fozzie Bear and Mugatu. And the fact I could answer my friend’s question quickly glossed over a lot. A not-at-all-comprehensive list of products I’ve tried just from the past few years would include Baxter grooming cream, soft water pomade, cream pomade, hard cream pomade, and clay pomade; Aesop violet leaf hair balm and sculpt hair polish; Church California coastal cream pomade; Saturday’s New York City clay pomade (may it rest in peace—it was fantastic); Harry’s texturizing putty; Oribe silverati illuminating pomade and rough luxury soft molding paste; Triumph & Disaster Coltrane clay; and Bumble & Bumble grooming creme. I’ve even gone all Hollywood by trying Jillian Dempsey roadie hair pomade and Mira Chai Hyde’s House of Skuff potion no. 1. I was on a seemingly endless quest to find perfection: tame the hair, no shine, some hold, must look like there’s no product.
Detailing this seems weird and a little embarrassing. It is weird and a little embarrassing. But the fact I can now flatly say “Patricks M2” (Patricks M1 is also a winner) is personally satisfying, because it’s a small component of a much larger, decades-long effort to find what I like and not have to think about it again.
“You’ll see I wear only gray or blue suits,” former US President Barack Obama told Vanity Fair in 2012, when he was still in office. “I’m trying to pare down decisions. I don’t want to make decisions about what I’m eating or wearing. Because I have too many other decisions to make.” *
I’m not the president, obviously. And I’m not Steve Jobs, who was famous for wearing the same outfit every day (and actually wanted employees to do the same). But when it comes to landing on a personal style and then refining it, I can absolutely relate—and I have some pedigree.
My dad basically wore the same outfit for the final couple of decades of his life: Banana Republic low-rise chinos worn higher on the waist (dad was marginally vertically challenged, and the inseam was perfect when he did this), a Brooks Brothers button-down, and Minnetonka moosehide classic moccasins. He’d stock up on everything when he and mum would visit, and I actually still have the moccasins on an Amazon list a decade after dad’s death because I can’t quite bear to delete it. In summer, dad would roll his shirt sleeves. In winter, he’d add a cashmere sweater. And in a US winter, he’d throw a North Face Nuptse puffer over everything.
As long as I can remember, dad was consistent in his dress—and wedded to particular brands and styles (I’m mentally suppressing the short shorts he long favored in Australian summers, which were great for him but not so much for anyone sitting opposite. Hello!). He didn’t care about clothes as much as I do, but I think we share the desire to reach a point of not having to think too much.
A few months ago, I was walking through the office when a female colleague said: “I really admire your dedication to your color palette: blue, grey, and white.” I was indeed wearing navy pants with a white long-sleeved polo, grey sweatshirt, and white sneakers.
Now, it may have been intended as a dig (we had a few salty interactions here and there). But I absolutely took it as a compliment because, well, that was the whole point. I could have added “don’t forget a flash of olive or camel or tan now and then!”, but I think I said something like, “Thanks! Took me a long time!”
And just like the hair adventure, it did. For years, I didn’t know what the hell I wanted to look like and I’d go into a weird panic when the pressure was on. In maybe 2004, I met a friend of a friend at brunch and my heart skipped a beat when somehow the fact she was a Capricorn came up in conversation (I’d just read somewhere Capricorns were a perfect match for Taureans like me).
Her heart would have been excused for going into cardiac arrest when we met a few days later for dinner: for whatever reason, I’d decided buying black jeans and pairing it with a white button down was a great idea for a first date. I looked ridiculous and spent the whole date feeling uncomfortable and glued to my chair, fearing if I got up someone would try to place their order with me. Waiter! **
So, yeah, I think I’ve come a long way, albeit off a low, low base. I have the hair product dialed. Other toiletries sorted. Favorite t-shirts. Sweaters. Jeans. Workout gear. Sneakers. My closet is indeed a sea of navy, white, and shades of grey. I buy things I like in multiples, and try to adhere to the “one in, one out” closet philosophy. There are a few gaps in the list, of course. And I still try something different now and then, although it inevitably makes me realize my favorites have that status for a reason (sorry, Tomorrow’s Laundry).
But I reckon dad could relate. He was, at the end of a day, a pretty stylish dude, in a very consistent, predictable way (that’s not at all a bad thing. Heck, I’ve already noted I’d very consistently and predictably drape myself in one brand for the rest of eternity if given the chance. Paging Brunello!). And when you’ve got a couple of kids—as dad did, and I now have—minimizing the time spent figuring out what to wear frees you up for far, far, far more important things. Like dialing up the espresso rig!
* Maybe this partly explains the freak out when Obama two years later wore a tan suit. Oh, for the days when that was the biggest problem in Washington.
** There was no second date, obviously.
A note about whatever this is …
After writing a few thousand articles for newspapers and magazines, I spent a long time trying a bunch of other stuff. I guess I figured what came (relatively) easily must by definition be less valuable, so I wandered in the corporate wilderness, becoming increasingly frustrated and doing work that felt increasingly lousy.
Sometimes with age comes wisdom, and I’ve realized finding something (relatively) easy ain’t a bad thing. So, this is a space where I’m resurrecting writing for myself, on topics weird and wild and wonderful.
Posts will appear when the mood takes me, but I do try to be consistently inconsistent—sometimes it’ll be a couple of days between drinks; sometimes a week. But if you subscribe, you’ll get a email letting you know I’m ranting. Again.