Wardrobe Schematic No. 4: A blue shirt
One blue shirt, fourteen ways, across a working week. The whole argument for owning less, made with a single garment I have worn nearly to death.
One blue shirt, fourteen ways, across a working week. The whole argument for owning less, made with a single garment I have worn nearly to death.
I own one blue shirt. That is not quite true. I own one blue shirt that matters, and two others that exist mainly so the first one can be in the wash. It is a plain button-down in a pale, slightly faded blue, the colour the sky goes in the late afternoon when it has given up trying. The collar has softened. The cuffs have begun, very politely, to fray. I have worn it more than anything else I own, and I am not finished with it.
The schematic columns exist because people ask me how I get dressed, and the honest answer is that I mostly don't. I decided years ago. A small number of garments do nearly all the work, and the blue shirt does more of it than the rest put together. What follows is one working week of it. Fourteen ways, two a day. None of them requires buying anything, and several require nothing more than a sleeve rolled with some conviction.
I am aware this is a slightly ridiculous exercise. A shirt is a shirt. But the argument for owning less is easier to make with a garment than with a theory, so here is the garment.
A wardrobe does not need more pieces. It needs pieces that agree with each other.
Why blue, and not white.
White is the obvious choice, and white is a liability. It shows lunch. It shows the inside of the collar by four o'clock. It looks crisp for about an hour and then begins asking to be ironed again. Pale blue forgives. It sits kindly against most complexions, it flatters a face in grey London light in a way white rarely manages, and it reads as considered rather than official. It goes with navy, grey, black, denim, camel and olive, and with the one red lipstick I wear when I would like to be taken seriously.
If you are starting from nothing: cotton with a little texture, an oxford weave or a soft poplin, rather than anything with a sheen. A collar that holds its shape without being stiff. Shoulder seams that end where your shoulders do. Enough length to tuck and enough ease to wear open over something else. If the sleeves are a touch long, leave them. You will roll them more often than not.
Fourteen ways, one week.
Monday — The two sensible ones.
- One. Buttoned, tucked fully into dark trousers, sleeves down, cuffs done up. The Monday uniform. It asks nothing of anybody and gives a meeting the impression that you have read the agenda.
- Two. The same, with a fine knit jumper over the top and only the collar showing. For the evening, when the office heating has given up before you have.
Tuesday — Looser.
- Three. Half-tucked at the front only, into straight jeans, sleeves rolled twice to just below the elbow. The roll matters more than people think. Two neat turns, not a bunched shove.
- Four. Worn open as a light jacket over a plain white or black t-shirt. The shirt becomes a layer rather than the point.
Wednesday — A little effort.
- Five. Buttoned to the top, no necklace, tucked into a midi skirt. Severe in a way I find calming.
- Six. Open, sleeves rolled, over a slip dress. The shirt takes the evening fabric down a notch and the dress takes the shirt up one. They meet in the middle, which is where Wednesday lives.
Thursday — Tailoring.
- Seven. Under a navy blazer, top two buttons undone. The most predictable combination in the world, and predictable is underrated.
- Eight. Under a grey suit, collar laid out over the lapels. Slightly old-fashioned. I don't mind. It frames the face, which is the whole job of a collar.
Friday — Undone.
- Nine. Shirt-tails knotted once at the waist over wide trousers. Not cropped. Knotted low, the ends tucked under so it looks like a decision and not an accident.
- Ten. Untucked over slim trousers and belted at the waist with a thin leather belt, almost a tunic. This is the one people ask about, which tells you how little anyone is paying attention the rest of the week.
Saturday — Off duty.
- Eleven. Open over a swimsuit or a vest on the few warm days London permits. A cover-up that will also get you into a café.
- Twelve. Over a striped knit, buttoned, sleeves pulled out over the jumper's cuffs, collar out. For the walk that starts sunny and ends otherwise.
Sunday — Home.
- Thirteen. Over a nightdress, as a dressing gown, for the hour between waking and deciding anything.
- Fourteen. Under a heavy crewneck with only the hem and cuffs showing, for the cinema, or for Sunday dinner at someone else's table. A shirt doing the least it can and still being noticed.
Keeping it alive.
Wash less, and cooler.
Wear it, hang it overnight by an open window, wear it again. Wash it when it needs washing, not when it has merely been worn. A cool or lukewarm wash on a gentle cycle, buttons undone, turned inside out, with similar colours. Hot washes and the tumble dryer are what fade the blue unevenly and shrink the collar band. Hang it to dry on a proper hanger and let gravity do half the ironing.
Collar and cuffs first.
The collar and cuffs are where a shirt ages. A little of your ordinary laundry liquid worked into the inside of the collar with your fingers before washing does more than any special product. Iron the collar from the points inward so any creases go to the back, then the cuffs, then the rest. Or don't iron the rest, if it is going under a jumper. Nobody will know. I will not tell them.
Give it a day off.
This is why the two understudies exist. A cotton shirt worn and washed every single day wears out in a season. One that rests between wears lasts years. Mine is the proof, in a frayed sort of way.
Mend before you replace.
When the cuffs finally go, a tailor can turn them, or shorten the sleeves for summer. A loose button is two minutes with a needle. Replacing the shirt is the last resort, not the first instinct.
The point of owning less is not that you look the same every day. It is that you look like yourself every day, which is different.
The same thinking runs through the rest of the wardrobe columns: one navy coat kept for ten years, a mother's wardrobe that never changed, and dressing for the room rather than the lens, which borrows this shirt's collar as its example.
Filed by Nelly, from the desk · Wardrobe / Schematic