Androgyny is not a state of mind to be entered into lightly. On the catwalk designers tend to get carried away and by the time the hair, make-up and stylist people have done their bit with the Brylcreem, ties, kohl and Nazi side-partings, the whole effect often resembles the BBC costume department after a day’s shoot on Tipping the Velvet or a scene from Vita and Virginia Get Laid (not a real film title but surely only a matter of time).
I’ve never been mad about ties – they seem such a cheesy attempt to look provocatively dykey/school-girly that no one carries them off with the necessary insouciance. But other androgynous accoutrements have their good points (note that where fashion is concerned, androgyny is shorthand for male clothes that are appropriated by women and not for items such as sarongs, hair bands and nail varnish that men have been known to borrow from women).
However, it’s such a long time since androgyny last had a good outing in fashion (Helmut Lang’s trouser suits in the mid-Nineties, since which time ultra-feminine clothes have been the aesthetic norm) that it may take a while for us to get our heads round it.
Retailers and designers may have intuited this, because this time they’re calling androgyny Boyfriend Clothes, which sounds somehow more appealing. Boyfriend clothes include Crombie coats, those V-necked grandad cardigans that Preston from the Ordinary Boys wears so endearingly, men’s shirts, braces, school scarves, plimsolls, brogues, flat boots, waistcoats, trousers (slim or baggy), satchel-type bags, Puffas and parkas – all of which will be available in Topshop, Harvey Nichols et al this winter – in those shades of grey and black that you’ve been trying to coax him out of for years.
All well and good – and part of the inexorable trend away from skinny, skimpy, slutty silhouettes. But incorporating this stuff into an existing wardrobe so that everything works together seamlessly will be an exercise in restraint and cunning.
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Firstly, and crucially, when it says boyfriend clothes, it doesn’t mean you literally wear boyfriend’s clothes, unless your boyfriend happens to buy Dior menswear, which is unlikely because the only men who can fit into Hedi Slimane’s Dior collections are Pete Doherty and Karl Lagerfeld, both otherwise engaged, one way and another. No, boyfriend clothes means investing in the feminised version. The only reason Sienna Miller or Jennifer Aniston can wear boyfriend clothes on set is because someone has bulldogged the back of their shirt and someone else has run out to Dolce & Gabbana to buy a woman’s version of a man’s jacket.
Secondly, and also crucially, a sense of proportion. Literally. Baggy trousers and loose shirts that say, I’m so cool, not only have I had to borrow his shirt after a night of passion at his place but I haven’t had time to do it up, are what you call catwalk mood setters. That is, they look good on 6ft models and transmit a message that even those in the back row of a show can’t miss. In real life you need to counterbalance bagginess.
If the trousers are slouchy, look for fitted or semi-fitted white shirts, or cinch one in under a slim waistcoat or a one-button jacket. Keep the other boyfriend bits and bobs to a minimum. Add a piece of jewellery and resist severe hair. You’re borrowing a few of his style tricks, not stealing his identity.