It's a matter of taste

On a recent sojourn in Toronto I was taking stock of my fellow homo sapiens, and the locale being Queen Street East they were beautiful young people; the style conscious, self conscious, even one or two unconscious, all trying so so hard to be seen to be en vogue. It got me thinking about fashion.

Being English, I presume everything that I wear to be the height of fashion, just as everything I once surveyed was part of my empire! But what of other nationalities? The French; they have that Chanel little black dress thing going on. The Italians, glamour: raven haired women wearing over-sized sunglasses and fur coats, the men, too. Shirts unbuttoned to the navel and string bikinis (best not worn in tandem) mark out the Brazilians. Even the Americans have a style: that being any item of clothing with XXXX stamped across the label, and I don’t mean the Australian beer branding! But Canadian fashion, hmmm?

To go with the stereotype, because like it or not every stereotype is grounded in truth and also because I think I’ve typecast every nationality mentioned above already, Canadian fashion is lumberjack. Yes, you heard me, lumberjack. Plaid shirts, blue jeans and sturdy boots, all topped off by a full and bushy beard. It works well for the chaps. Ladies, I’d forego the flourish of facial hair, unless you are looking to sneak into a hunt camp unannounced.

Now, lumberjack chic is not a bad thing – apart from the ladies with beards that is – and the general penchant around these parts for rugged work wear is a sensible choice, especially as most folk chop logs, blow snow, hike trails and hunt game. Imagine trying to forge a path through a particularly prickly piece of bush wearing Jimmy Choos and a Diane von Furstenberg dress. Difficult, as any man who has tried to walk in high heels will testify.

 
And, anyway lumberjack chic is no oxymoron. Visit Covent Garden in the centre of London and you’ll see the Carhartt shop selling the same jeans and overalls that Home Hardware knocks out to local carpenters to fashion-afflicted city kids - albeit at much inflated prices. The same goes for Dickies and Tough Duck. If Mr Bernstein’s shop were on Bond or Oxford Street he could mark up those work pants and quilted shirts threefold.

But setting aside the stereotype, the norm so to speak, there are fashionable folks aplenty in Haliburton Highlands. The thing is, they don’t slavishly follow trends or look to the latest issue of some prophesorial magazine for guidance. That neckerchief knotted about a fellow’s throat marks him out as a bit of a cat; a jauntily sported hat, a natty waistcoat or unusually trimmed moustache all indicate a chap who bucks the trend but knows his style.

And then there are the ladies, oh the glorious ladies. Far from fashion follies, the elegance with which many of our female artists dress would knock spots off the style conscious city women. That is, if only said urban ladies would wear more polka dot.

You see, the style a la mode out here in the wilds of cottage country is individuality itself. Most, including myself, tend to dress more after-a-fashion than in fashion, amiably reinforcing the stereotype. Believe it or not, I’ll readily don a heavy boot, hardy legwear and check shirt when venturing out into the community. The suave silk hanky sporting chap you see at the head of this column is me in disguise, so that disgruntled lumberjacks don’t recognise me in the supermarket!

But enough of me: the local folk who dress with real panache are a sight to behold. They stride through our little communities with a quiet confidence, an understated radiance that cocks a snoot at convention and the mass marketed clothing conformity that passes for style in the dreary city. This is haute couture Haliburton. Minden taking on Milan!

And so I say to you all, we have an international film festival in Haliburton, why stop there; let’s get in on the fashion scene, too. London, Paris, New York, West Guildford: if only.