The Perfect Shirt Doesn't Exi––
The story of a post-pandemic wardrobe staple, the influence of Annie Hall & a sartorial family history.
I’m not sure what happened. You could point to the pandemic, sure. We’ve all waffled over what to wear since then. It could be that becoming a mom has changed more than my body and mind. It’s changed my entire wardrobe. But in a matter of years, I went from being a person who wore the latest suede Gucci loafers into her office at 1 World Trade Center to someone wiping toddler snot on a pair of Athleta joggers before slipping into a pair of Crocs and running out the front door.
I think about my sartorial dilemma a lot (read: every day when I stare apathetically into a closet full of perfectly nice clothes, unsure if I want to wear any of it). I need to sell all my clothes and start over, I think. Pare down. Less is more. Sezane sweaters, Ilana Kohn jumpers, pieces I once treasured, are now passed in exchange for snotty joggers.
But there is one article of clothing that never fails me. She is my tried-and-true, go-to, always-comfy, nice-looking companion—with joggers, jeans, and all. She is my AYR button-down. Which I own in four color ways.
It began like most purchases. A targeted Instagram ad of a waif-like model who is casually strolling a sunlit outdoor pavilion. It’s as though she has nowhere to be, no children to pick up from school, no job at which to labor over, no groceries to buy. No, she gets her groceries delivered from Erewhon. She is effortless, comfortable. Unafraid to spend $100+ on a basic button-down.
I looked for a sale. I think I snagged a certain percentage off my first purchase. I’ll give it a try, I thought. When you are a breastfeeding mother who needs “nice” clothes with easy access to your breasts, but in the least exciting way ever, you’ll consider buying almost anything if it will make you feel like real woman again. But the truth is: My quest for the perfect button-down began long ago. Long before I was aware of it.
If you’ve ever been in search of Diane Keaton’s psychological impact, this your proof. I saw Annie Hall in college. I didn’t immediately swap my “going out” tops with slacks and vests, but her look—this casual manner with which Annie moves through the world—it stuck with me. In fact, I remember nothing about Woody Allen in that film and give him no credit. Diane Keaton wins everything. Annie’s beauty is understated. She is self-possessed, powerful in her effortlessness. I wanted that. But as it turned out, my mother had been grooming me for that all along.
My mother is queen of a collar, a beauty in a button-down. Button-down dresses, pussy bows, wide lapels, peter pan collars. I could go on. Even today, she wears a chambray shirt like she was ordained to do so.
Naturally, she began dressing her five-year old with the same effortless, quasi-tailored panache. Since then, my affair with the button-down has evolved, but not necessarily for the better. This journey is not linear.
As a quirky, chubby fifth grader, I once wore a white button-down, black wide-leg trousers, and a tie to school? Like some under-age caterer. ( I regret that I don’t have this photo handy to show you. Just kidding, no I don’t.) Then in the 90s, blinded by a flannel-induced haze (I blame Eddie Vedder), I wore this:
I can’t even be mad about this attempt at looking like someone’s dad, because my affinity for the button-down is too strong. It was knitted into my sartorial DNA by my mother, and my mother’s mother, the way children of cowboys are born to wear boots; like southerners are destined to wear monogrammed seersucker and how some Europeans are simply inclined to trendy mullets. I was born for the button-down.
Turns out, even an identity-shaking pandemic couldn’t keep me away from my button-downs. I’m happy to report I’m still dressing like someone’s dad, clothes crumpled with a baseball cap and bad shoes. I still struggle with finding clothes that fit my newly shaped postpartum body, clothes that are functional (pockets!), comfortable, nice enough, and affordable (reminder: snot). But my AYR button-down has consistently come to my rescue when I am in need of “looking like a person” but also being comfortable. She looks as good half-tucked into jeans with a bold, red lip as she does with boogery sweatpants. She is effortless, self-possessed, beautiful in her simplicity. She is Annie Hall approved.