A few years ago, I attended a house party in the Cotswolds – friend of a friend type situation, randomly invited along as extra company. Our host, whom we’ll call James because that was his name, answered the door wearing what I thought was the worst shirt I’d ever seen. At least it looked like an actual shirt that hadn’t previously belonged to George Clooney – frayed collar, elbows conspicuously patched, probably owned for decades.
His pants had holes worn into the knees where he definitely should have thrown them away three years ago. His shoes were some kind of well worn brown leather oxfords that probably cost more than my car. Except – and this is the crazy part – his disgusting shirt was actually a handmade Turnbull & Asser that was probably twice what I paid in rent last year.
Those shitty pants were made specifically for him by some bespoke tailor from Savile Row whose name I’d never heard of but will remember forever. Those ancient brown oxfords were made by Edward Green and retail for about $1,500/pair new.
They were probably 50 years old.
This man owned the six-bedroom property we were currently leaning on in the driveway and had more wealth than I will make in my entire life. He also happened to look like he’d stolen his clothes from an exclusive vintage shop. James introduced me to what I like to think of as “comfortably posh” style and honestly changed the way I looked at clothes forever.
Let me dig into what fascinated me about this Anglophilic display of wealth through worn-in clothing and how it challenged me to rethink my own minimalist approach to dressing. Years of curating a capsule wardrobe and investing in quality basics had made me feel pretty proud of myself in the intentionality department. And yet here were these British men who had mastered intentional dressing to a degree I hadn’t considered possible.
Dressing as if you don’t care so hard that you actually don’t care. Looking just barely on the right side of homeless in a totally deliberate way. The more I learned about this lifestyle (trust me, there is a lifestyle), the more it made sense as an extension of what I already believed about quality over quantity.
These were not people who didn’t care about clothing. They cared so much about clothing that they would rather wear the same perfect jacket for 30 years than replace it at any cost. Before this, my approach to minimalism was very Silicon Valley centric.
Clean. New. Optimized.
This was old, yes, but it was also worn in a way that said “I don’t care about this shit.” Which was the real revelation. The true luxury isn’t the newest, whitest clothes. It’s clothes so high-quality that they look better worn for 20 years than most people’s look new out of the box.
I started noticing other subtle clues that weren’t as obvious when you first meet someone wearing jersey rough as jeans. Clothes that look well worn don’t suddenly appear that way. New is dirty.
Loud. Casual. The mud on those wellington boots everyone thinks are country cliches?
They’re supposed to have it. It shows you were actually out walking through fields, not just driving from pub to pub. Those tweed jackets with rigid shoulders are supposed to be worn in for years before they fit right.
Not wrinkles, you’re wearing it wrong. Even tuxedos seem lived in. Okay but wait.
Doesn’t all of this mean insanely high quality clothing? Because it does. The english countryside uniform is completely built around clothing that won’t just age gracefully but will improve with age.
Which means everything has to be built to the highest standards or it simply won’t hold up. Barbour jackets cost more than my iPhone. The sweaters with elbow patches didn’t just come that way.
They wore them that much. And then, when they ripped, got fixed by actual tailors instead of thrown away. Clothes don’t just wear down, they develop patina.
The decades old shooting jacket with fade marks where your shoulder strap rubbed isn’t faded because you wear it a lot, it’s faded because it spent hundreds of days getting dragged around in the woods. Spending time away from home, in the dirt, not tucked safely away in your wardrobe is a point of pride. My girlfriend had listened patiently to this monologue and had looked at me like I had three heads. “So you’re telling me that rich people wear their clothes so badly on purpose?” No, not exactly.
Rich people wear clothes that look like they’ve been lived in by people who’ve actually lived life. There’s a difference, subtle maybe but important! Their brand loyalty runs deep, almost to the point of exclusivity.
There’s this unofficial list of approved suppliers that, I’m pretty sure, hasn’t changed since I was born. Country wear: Cordings. Purdey.
Farlows. Suits: God only knows how many Savile Row shops, all centuries old and stuffy. Shirts: Turnbull & Asser, Hilditch & Key.
Shoes: Edward Green, Crockett & Jones, John Lobb, etc. But here’s the kicker – you’ll rarely see a logo or brand name anywhere. Wearers of this style know what brands to buy and wear.
Everyone else just sees “nice clothes.” Half the fun is acquiring this stuff second hand. Inheritance is preferred. Better to have your grandpa hand down his old shooting jacket than buy something retail.
I saw two men debate at the pub whether someone’s jacket had belonged to their father or uncle as if who previously owned the jacket mattered more than the jacket itself. Spoiler: when you’re rich, it kind of does. Uniform broken down: Wearing well: ancient Barbour jacket (90% of the time a Beaufort model, which you patch multiple times because Barbour jackets do not simply get thrown away), corduroys/moleskin trousers in earth tones, classic checked shirt worn until it’s lighter than the khaki trousers it’s being worn with, brown leather shoes that look new but probs aren’t.
You Might Also Like
Sweaters are cashmere/lambswool in Fair Isle patterns usually done in navy, black, white, bottle green, and/or burgundy. Pair loudly patterned scarf with mostly muted ensemble. Entire outfit shouldn’t match, but should coordinate.
City wear: Classic British with a twist of Anglo tourist. Tailoring is very specific patterns that, as someone who didn’t go to British public schools will never understand. Shirts are always white or very pale blue, maybe some faint stripes.
No graphics. Leave the Anchorman hat at home. Keep accessories subdued.
Signet rings should be passed down through multiple generations. Watch should be analog on a leather band. Don’t be flashy.
Pocket square is allowed to look like you just shoved it in there. These guys understand “broken in” on a whole other level I didn’t know possible. They do not sweat the small stuff.
Until, of course they do. Their shoes are always immaculately polished, even if they’re 50 years old. Their suits may be 30 years old but you’d better believe they ran it down the brush twice before they wore them.
Vintage isn’t vintage unless it’s perfectly maintained. Socks might be god-awful but they get haircut by a cobbler every six months. Their haircuts haven’t changed since college because they still get fucked by the same barber their dads went to.
There is no IKEA shortcut to looking this put together. You will never see these clothes brands new in-store, with ridiculous “open until 9!” shopping hours. Time, quite literally, is money in this scenario.
You could spend thousands on the Barbour jacket of your dreams, but unless it has actual wear and tear it will scream BRAND NEW INSTAGRAM BASIC. Invest in tailored clothes? Sure.
But tailored clothes that don’t show decades of wear just look… cheap. This guy could probably wear these clothes to his child’s funeral and barely raise an eyebrow. You have to be secure in your place in society to show up to a wedding tuxedo that’s visibly worn.
There’s an assumption that you won’t be fired for wearing a piece of clothing so many times your grandmother would recognize it that most people don’t have. Which I think is awesome. We live in a society of such rampant consumerism and disposability that dressing in a way that defies current trends and shouts “I will wear this until it dies” is kinda revolutionary.
I’ve watched grown men argue over who wore their holey Fair Isle sweaters more times than I’ve been alive. Imagine caring that much about your clothes. The thing is though, there are definitely some not great elements to fixating on this type of style.
Lots of the clothes fall into INCREDIBLY EXPENSIVE to buy new category. More problematically, the lifestyle that would allow you to pick up these behaviors just doesn’t exist for most people. This whole aesthetic is predicated on classism that makes me uncomfortable.
But here’s the thing I loved about it: Quality lasts forever. Fast fashion doesn’t. Buy better, buy once.
Repair, don’t replace. Clothes should tell the story of your life, not where you wish you were living. I try to keep these ideals in mind when I think about clothes these days.
Do I have a stupidly expensive Barbour jacket? No. But I have spent more on a perfectly fitting cotton shirt than I would’ve 10 years ago.
My clothes still fit into a minimalist wardrobe, but I won’t buy something unless it gets better with wear. Scuffs on my shoes mean it’s been worn, not that it was abused. I have a tailor and cobbler I see regularly to keep old clothes looking new.
My jeans have faded from black to white in seven years. My sweaters get neater every fall when I pull them out of storage. Yes, this lifestyle still confuses and irritates my girlfriend.
She will never understand why I get giddy over a perfectly worn in jacket with elbow patches. But at least she knows what the hell I’m talking about now.
Point being: wear your clothes until they can’t be worn anymore.
Buy clothes that you know will stand the test of time, both stylistically and durability-wise. Hell, learn how to sew on a button and take your clothes to get altered instead of pitching them at the first sign of wear. Fast fashion teaches us to dispose of clothes after one season.
Clothes that age well teach us to cherish them for a lifetime. Truthfully, this idea has bled into other realms of style I follow and admire. The whole Heritage Menswear scene has latched on to many of these same ideals while making them accessible to everyone.
There are more visibly repaired clothes than ever, people buying less but better, and a resurgence in classic tailoring techniques all over social media. Makes me hopeful that the values I saw embodied in a weird British dressing trend can reach more people than just me and my socks. Next time you’re out and spot someone rocking that vintage waxed jacket with a million patches, shirt so distressed you can’t even tell what color it is meant to be but obviously had to cost thousands, or shoes so polished you know they’ve walked at least a few miles- stop and appreciate them.
Here before us is not just a style choice, but a worldview displayed proudly for all to see. Some things, like apparently these people and maybe even ourselves, only improve with age and wear.
