Dress Like an Egyptian

Nothing says summer like cool blue and white stripes. Linen knit from flax, by Zara.When I was a teenager I remember being warned against linen fabric: “It’ll crease terribly,” doomsayers were fond of declaring. Linen suffered from a bad reputation in the fashion world, but it had a renaissance in the 1990s, when about 70% of linen production contributed to textile apparel. This was a huge leap from the 1970s when only 5% was used by the garment industry.

Jaw-dropping: a field of growing flaxFlax flowerLinen, a fibre made from the flax plant, has been used for millennia. The ancient Egyptians wrapped their mummies with it; in the days of Homer warriors used linen to make a type of body armour called a ‘linothorax’, while in the Middle Ages it was used for shields, bowstrings and gambeson (a type of jacket worn as armour). From pool cues and bread couches (a kind of mould to hold dough), to canvases and dollar bills, linen has many and varied uses.

Garments made from linen are expensive however, and this is due to the labour-intensive manufacturing process. The crops must be nursed along, being more difficult to grow, and more expensive to produce than cotton. Flax thread is difficult to weave without breaking threads because it is non-elastic. Those random slubs, or knots visible in some fabrics are actually flaws, associated with low quality – fine linen fibres will be very consistent. The rewards of perseverance are there: fabric is cool and smooth to the touch, lint-free and unlikely to pill, and it softens the more often it is washed.

Flax fibre looks at first glance like sheep’s woolAs for the dreaded wrinkling: this is due to linen’s poor elasticity – it does not spring back readily and formal garments must be ironed often. Happily it is a hardy fabric, and is the only one that is actually stronger when it is wet, although constant creasing or folding in the same places will weaken those threads. Interestingly linen fabric can absorb and lose water rapidly, and can gain up to 20% moisture without feeling damp, which is why it is perfect for hot weather. It was the Egyptians’ favourite fabric, and they wore only white in the desert heat.

Linen weave is a plain, almost coarse weave with large holesAlthough I overcame that early fear instilled by some nameless adult, today I particularly love linen knit fabrics: the somewhat loose (almost holey) weave makes up such light, airy garments. I own two tees by Zara made from flax linen (the term ‘linen’ can also be applied to garments made from other fibres such as cotton or hemp when the textile features a linen-style weave) and they have held up beautifully over two summers and are so comfortable to wear. In a hot climate, you just can’t do better than to dress like an Egyptian.

Click on any of the images and jump through to learn much more about the history of flax and the manufacturing processes of linen.

Botanical drawing of the flax plant

The Pony Still Prances

I loathe mending clothes with every fibre of my being. If I can fob it off onto a) a tailor or b) my seamstress sister Blossom, I do. When I am forced to by serious wardrobe malfunctions (ie, clothes falling off one such as happened to me at a recent wedding when a button tore on a fragile 60s dress, forcing me to keep my coat on in the church even though I was about to expire from heat exhaustion) I will sew on a button, or mend a torn seam.

Likewise, ironing is something I leave for months at a time. Preferably when an entire season’s worth of clothing has accumulated in the ironing basket or I have run out of clothes – whichever comes first. Luckily I own a lot of clothes. It is not as torturous a chore as mending, and I can just about muster the energy if I can watch a DVD at the same time. (As long as I have seen the film or episode before, and it’s not in a foreign language – otherwise it’s far too interesting.)

But laundering. I am fanatical about proper laundering. I even have a laundry section on this website (see tag cloud, right).

Let’s first digress and look at some romantic pictures of laundering:

Women Washing Clothes by a Stream, Daniel Ridgway KnightThis woman takes her washing very seriously – as she should, c. 1900–1930It is important to look cute while handwashing, c. 1940s

Clothes will last much longer if they are treated kindly. I remember once a friend told me she just chucked everything into the machine. I was aghast. I had to be picked up from the floor and resuscitated. She was, in fact, one of my inspirations to start this blog. I thought, if there is one young woman who doesn’t know how to properly launder cashmere, there might be hundreds out there. It was my duty to impart my wisdom.

… if there is one young woman who doesn’t know how to properly launder cashmere, there might be hundreds out there.

Today I am going to discuss sequins. There are two sorts of sequins: new ones, and vintage ones.

Take the vintage ones to the dry cleaner. That is all.

If you need convincing, read this cautionary tale: I once owned a delightful short-sleeved, soft black cashmere vintage cardigan that was trimmed in pearl beads. I handwashed it gently in cool water … and watched in horror as the pearl coating floated off the beads, leaving dull plastic behind. The cardigan subsequently went back to the charity shop. It was a lesson to me. Learn from it.

For new shiny garments that you particularly like, obviously check the washing instructions on your garment. Even if it says dry clean only, it may be handwashed gently (at your own risk, but I take such risks all the time and I have not come to grief thus far) and laid flat to dry on a towel or clothes airer. For more detailed instructions click here (although I would not use warm water if the garment is silk). Very delicate evening wear I would take to a dry cleaner.

For new shiny garments that are minimally sequinned and you bought from a charity shop for $4 and don’t particularly care if they live or die, stick them in a lingerie bag and wash with your normal clothes on a gentle cycle. They should be fine; mine was. The pony still prances.

Now if only I could find it in the depths of the ironing basket so I could wear it again …

And my most favourite image of all … Hang onto your clothes like grim death in case they try to escape the washboard. Don’t try this at home! Ph George Marks, c. 1930s

The Incredible Shrinking Knit

Laundry labels are sewn into garments for a reason. Usually it is best to pay attention to them. Except when it says ‘dry clean only’. I try to get away with handwashing whenever I can, although once it backfired on me. I thoughtlessly threw in a lovely dove grey fine gauge 100% wool knit by Calvin Klein thinking it was certainly washable, only to find it shrunk to doll size. I was rather cross with Calvin.

But there was one occasion when an accidental hot machine wash worked for me rather than against me.

Years ago whilst enjoying a little shopping spree in Hong Kong, I purchased a knit from Max & Co in a size too large for me. I do not know what possessed me to do so. It was too big in every respect, but in particular, the sleeves hung loosely past my fingertips by many centimetres. I loved this Guinevere style knit with its juliet sleeves however, even if it made me look like I was dragging my knuckles on the ground, and I continued to wear it.

I loved this Guinevere style knit … even if it made me look like I was dragging my knuckles on the ground …

One day I chucked in a dark wash – all underthings and spencers and stockings and such. Or so I thought. When I pulled everything out at the end of the cycle I was horrified to find I had inadvertently thrown in this enormous knit! But when it dried, I found that the machine had magically shrunk the jumper a whole size down and it fit me perfectly.*

So you see, sometimes it really does all come right in the wash.

* DISCLAIMER: Attempt at this at home entirely at your own risk. SNAP cannot be held responsible for any knits that have been shrunk too much, felted or otherwise mangled.

Laundromat image from The Magical Miss.

Pale and Interesting

The Vintage Hat Series: 1960s black cellophane straw lattice hatQuite a long time ago I decided that tans were not for me. For one thing, I found it extremely boring to lie in the sun carefully broiling each side like a pale jellyfish, and another, living in Australia made it a serious health hazard, what with holes in ozone layers and wicked burning rays. Of course, as a child and young teen I was as brown as a berry (as they say), simply from playing in the sunshine. But by the time I reached my mid-teens, I decided I would much rather be pale and interesting.

See more parasols on PinterestAt some point I conceived a passion for hats. I am not sure if this was serendipitous – coinciding with Australia’s first skin-cancer awareness campaign* – or if it was actually inspired by my loathing for sunscreen. It’s so gross and sticky, although I should hasten to add I do wear it when swimming. In Australia, however, a hat – unless it has a simply enormous brim – is not enough. I decided to revive the usage of parasols. My very first parasol was a Victorian-inspired calico and Battenberg lace affair that I bought nearly twenty years ago in Queensland. I still use it.

[the hat’s] resemblance to my lace parasol and its dubious ability to protect me from the sun is mildly amusing …

Last year I purchased on eBay a quaint 1960s black cellophane straw hat that is woven into a lattice pattern. I’d never seen anything like it before. Its resemblance to my lace parasol and its dubious ability to protect me from the sun is mildly amusing though. (If you act fast, here’s a similar hat on eBay from Cat’s Pajamas Vintage on sale right now). Unfortunately the hat arrived quite crushed in its box. It would have to be revived.

A different millinery seller had thoughtfully included an instruction sheet for the care of hats with another purchase.

Restoring straw hats

Poor, crushed hat

Brush off any dust with a soft brush. If you need to reshape the crown hold it upside down over steam and move it about for a couple minutes and then place it on a wig stand or stuff the crown with tissue or soft t-shirt material – never, never use newspaper because the ink will transfer. Let it cool and the shape will be restored.

The procedure is simple, but beware of burning your fingers. And the verdict? The shape of the hat has improved, but I do think it could do with another session in the sauna. I may have more luck using a kettle, with the steam coming out with more force, or else the problem lies in it being made from cellophane, rather than natural straw.

Getting my fingers burnedOn the first occasion I wore the hat to work, all the girls exclaimed in delight. In fact, I was so tickled by it when I saw an almost identical white version on eBay I had to buy that too. Just what I need: another holey hat for the summer sun.

For more information on hat care, visit Hat Shapers.

*Australia’s first skin-cancer awareness campaign slogan: “Slip, Slop, Slap – Slip on a t-shirt, slop on some sunscreen and slap on a hat.”

A Hat Intervention

A Story in Pictures

I love green and white together. It’s such a summery combination. So when I saw this houndstooth hat on Etsy recently, I immediately snapped it up. Ironically it’s wool, so it’s really more of a winter hat. However, there was something else wrong with it: it had a rose attached to the band. I didn’t like that. Not at all.

It’s not that I dislike roses. Sometimes I like them very much (especially when people bring a whole bunch of them round to my house). It’s all in the execution (if the roses are accompanied by a box of chocolates, even better). 

This fat squishy one made from tweed immediately put me in mind of the Mills & Boon logo. It looked just a little naff on the side of the hat. Twee, even (sorry, I couldn’t resist that pun). And I mean, whoever heard of a fedora with a rose on its side? That’s just so wrong; it goes totally against the grain. Fedoras are hats with attitude. It had to come off.

I really like using a seam ripper. There’s something satisfying about hacking straight through a row of thread. I like the little snapping sound the thread makes when it breaks … 

Pick, pick, rip, rip …

OFF WITH ITS HEAD! Now this fedora is worthy of its name, and can sit up on my head. Fedora, I adore ya.