By: Nathan Eyre

When I get dressed, I ask myself the following question:

If the Sartorialist saw me today, would he want to take a photo of me?

According to his website, Scott “The Sartorialist” Schuman started his blog with “the idea of creating a two-way dialogue about the world of fashion and its relationship to daily life.” His photos are an awesome inspiration when creating outfits. If he takes the time to photograph you for your outfit, it is for one of two reasons: either you are boldly sporting an outfit that pushes the mold or you have a perfectly crafted outfit made of classic pieces. This is my goal in how I present myself to the world; I want to be edgy and try to uniquely bring new styles into my fashion, or I want to show that using time-tested articles I can create a dashing outfit. Either way, I am using my clothes to express and represent myself to the world. Different tastes, opinions, political ideals, etc. are unique to me and can define me as a person, but one of the most essential characteristics that needs representation in my fashion is that I am a man. This is why I have to ask myself another question.

Are you dressed like a man?

My girlfriend, Lisa, has an obsession with chambray, and over our years of knowing each other she has tried and tried to get me to purchase one. The case wasn’t that I dislike chambray, but more of the fact that I was a poor college student never really allowed me to spend money on a new chambray shirt. Last summer, I finally found an acceptable one on the Gap clearance rack. A few weeks later, we were planning on going on a date and she asked me to wear the chambray shirt with some jeans I have and a fuschia/white striped bowtie that I own, along with a pair of linen cap toe oxfords. In theory this is a great outfit. When I put on the outfit, something was off. The wash of the jeans was so close to the blue of the chambray and the cut of the jeans that it looked like I was wearing cowboy boots. I thought in my mind that, yes, the Sartorialist would probably be impressed with the boldness enough to snap a photo, but I wasn’t totally comfortable with the outfit. Either way, my girlfriend had requested the outfit, so I wore it. When I got to her place we had a good laugh about how ridiculous I looked and continued on with our date. This instance, along with a few others, helped me to create this second rule of clothing: dress like a man.

Everyone has a different way that they would describe “dressing like a man”, but I do not think dressing like a man has much to do with loose jeans and tee shirts that tell us which Beer is your favorite. Dressing like a man has to do with wearing clothes that are cut for your body type and make you look professional and your age. Maturity has a lot to do with it. The most important part of this criterion for me is being comfortable and confident with what you are wearing. While I was dressed as (what was later dubbed) “The Gay Cowboy”, I was neither comfortable nor confident in my manhood.

The whole point of this post is to introduce you to a series of writings I hope to do, where I will write more specifically about ways to better dress like a man. There are all sorts of ways to dress trendy and try to snag the attention of fashion bloggers, but I want to jot down a few pointers on how to better dress like a man, man.

By: Megan Adams

According to Hindu legend, there once was an evil king named Hiranyakashyap (pronounce that, if you can) who wanted everyone to worship only him. To King Hiranyakashyap’s utter dismay, his son Prahlad did not worship his father, but was devoted to Lord Krishna. As punishment, the king ordered his equally evil sister, Holika, who was known for walking through flames without being burned, to carry Prahlad through fire. Unfortunately for Holika, the gods rewarded Prahlad’s devotion by protecting him amidst the flames while Holika burned to a crisp.

Holi, short for Holika, is a Hindu holiday celebrating the passing of winter into spring and the triumph of good over evil. In India, one day of the celebration involves a large bonfire where locals shout insults at Holika, and children play pranks in honor of Krishna, who happened to be a little prankster himself.

The legend of Holika, as well as the Holi celebration varies between Indian regions. In Barsana, for instance, men come from the land of Krishna wearing extra padding, knowing that upon their arrival, they will receive a beating from the Barsanan women, who have armed themselves with sticks. The men are not allowed to retaliate, and some of them will be captured and made to dance around in women’s clothing. I’m not sure why the men keep going to Barsana, but, as a woman, I find the whole ordeal rather amusing. However, the Holi tradition that most concerns me today is the Festival of Colors where the Indians drench one another with colored water as Krishna once did with gopis, or cow-herding girls, for his own amusement.

Holi in Southern India is more subdued, while the holiday in the north involves singing Bollywood Holi songs, dancing, colors, and drinking thandai, a drink made of milk and various seeds and spices, laced with bhang, an intoxicating substance derived from the female cannabis plant. Now if that isn’t the recipe for a good party, I don’t know what is.

Given this description, I’m convinced celebrating Holi in India would be a one-of-a-kind experience, but in Salt Lake City, locals get a small taste of the celebration with a small-scale Festival of Colors. Naturally I couldn’t resist the festival. I paid my entrance fee, I ate my Indian food, and I bought my Indian bag to replace my nasty yellow hobo, stained from airport restroom water it soaked up when I leaned against the counter to wash my hands while flying either to or from San Francisco; I can’t remember which. Ironically, I had purchased a new leather purse that trip, but I foolishly took my hand off it while riding the BART, and I walked right off the train without my brand new purse, still in its H&M bag with its freshly printed receipt. I was sad for two days.

But we were talking about the Festival of Colors.

I can think of few instances in which it is socially acceptable to throw crap in a complete stranger’s face or smear something in that stranger’s hair or clothing, but the Festival of Colors is one of those glorious times. Before the countdown to the throwing of colors even begins, people will toss vibrant powders in the air, on people’s clothes, and in the faces of the random people surrounding them, and the victims cheer gleefully, their sole desire to become more colorful than their neighbor. A band plays rock and roll and sings over and over again the words Prahlad chanted while Holika carried him into the flames:

Hare Krishna; hare Krishna/

Krishna, Krishna; hare, hare/

Hare Rama; hare Rama/

Rama, Rama; hare, hare!

Then the band counts down from ten, and the intense color flinging begins. I aimed most of my color at my friend, but I threw color into the air and at strangers, and I rubbed blue powder into this guy’s hair who kept throwing color at me, hoping I would retaliate, so, of course, I obliged. I inhaled powder, I swallowed powder, I cried the powder from my bloodshot eyes, and then I cheered and begged for more. I sang “Hare Krishna!” with the band, and I danced and shouted and let hippies smear yellow dust in my hair – all this without the aid of thandai and bhang.

Afterwards my friend and I grabbed a pizza from Papa Murphy’s, where our colorful faces were the envy of all those who had missed the festival. We ate our pizza and watched a movie back at my apartment, reluctant to wash away the colors, leaving powder all over my leather couch. When I finally did shower that night, I watched the colors mix into a dark green pool at my feet and travel in a little stream to the drain. I couldn’t get all of the color off my left hand, which retained faint purple blotches for the next couple of days, a fact which made me glad.