These uniforms might have been smart but were unforgiving. Every little crease showed, every little bulge identified a deficiency on your person that couldn't be rectified, not without re-tucking everything in or pulling it down. Smoothing it all away, over hips, or hiding anything unsightly with the linen serving cloth folded over your arm and held in front, stood at your station, observant but invisible (you hoped) to paying customers.
After one wearing cuffs and collars had tide marks, and your skin was stamped with ghost lines and buttons that failed to fade as quickly as they were made. And the next day you'd ache from being tightly encased; from being forced to restrict your usual fluid movements, but at least at ease until the next service, unless it was your turn to be in the kitchen.
If you were, attired differently that is, you then felt a little scruffy. The catering white tunic and blue gingham trousers were looser, much, much looser. Too big overall and made you feel like a bit of a clown. The trouser legs would flap around your calves and ankles, and the drawstring, even if pulled as far as it would go, wouldn't be tied into a bow anywhere near your navel; whereas the tunic was thick, made of coarse material which might have been fireproof, and with such wide gaps in-between the large buttons that fastened air still touched flesh and exposed it at the same time. I once got stung by a bee who'd found his way in and had to visit the nurse.
Situations like that happen to me all the time. Even now. When I don't wear a uniform, one ordered by a company, a position or superiors, except that of my own design: mostly assorted tops and boot-cut leggings and reliable footwear. It's a happy medium between wanting to be held in and wanting freedom. Yet, garments continue to cause me problems. Belts and buckles swivel even after extra holes are made; a polo neck makes my throat feel constricted; waist-tops on trousers sit nicely, too tightly or inch their way downwards so that I have to hitch them up in places where I'd rather not be seen doing so; close-fitting jumpers throw my shoulders back but pin my arms to my sides, making natural movements appear awkward, and once home there's the struggle to peel them off, alone, when really it's a two-person job; and cardigans never hang neatly on my frame, they slouch and bag.
Yes, all in all it's not an easy job clothing me. And that's before outerwear. A coat is supposed to cover most sins, and perhaps add shape through elegant lines. Though not in my experience. Coats tend to make me feel a bit trapped; one or two have done that literally. A zip has jammed, become stuck on the lining, in the most inconvenient locations, where the only way out has been to tug it over my head much to the stifled amusement of those around me. And if not that, then a button has got caught on the shopping basket, so that when the cashier comes to take the basket off me my coat and myself are going with it; in danger of being zapped along with my items. There's always some mishap...
And even if there's not, some coats take an age to put on and take off. I own a very tasteful, long-line coat, in a tweed-like fabric with a belt and swinging skirt, which for two years I was pleased to wear but which for some time now has sat in my wardrobe looking forlorn. It's not warm; its pockets are for show, they're not meant to be used. and the buttons once fastened never stay that way, though I must say I did used to think I cut a rather dashing figure. Whereas wearing it now makes me think of a dressing gown and therefore it shouldn't be seen. My confidence to don such a costume (and leave the flat) has deserted me.
Yet in spite of all that, if your outer casing is right – in skin contact and texture – there's a degree of security and fearlessness.
Picture credit: A Coat, 1860, Aldoph von Menzel, private collection
All posts published this year were penned during the last.
