In a bittersweet address on Facebook last week, Simone Righi of Frasi told his followers he’s shuttering his menswear boutique in Florence, Italy. The store, which is located just a few blocks from the Arno River, has long been known for its personalized service and quality clothing. Inside were luxurious cashmere knits from Fedeli and Hawick; tastefully patterned ties from Mattabisch and Tie Your Tie; and natural-shouldered sport coats from Sartorio Napoli and Orazio Luciano. 

The store’s main draw, however, has always been the man behind the counter. Simone has exceptional taste and an easy-going style, and he dresses with a natural sophistication that arguably can’t be taught. He has what antique collectors call The Eye, which is that unteachable and irrevocable power to discern art from trash, real from fake, inspired from derivative. “Most of the great dressers I know tend to dismiss complaints such as ‘your sleeve is a quarter-inch too short,’” David Isle once wrote of The Eye. “It’s not that they don’t care about these details. It’s that they have developed the ability to look at an outfit holistically, rather than in parts. They have The Eye. […] The legend of The Eye would have it that this talent cannot be learned.” Still, that hasn’t stopped many men from trying. Over the years, men from around the world have come to Frasi not only to shop, but also to pick up a few lessons from Simone on how they can wear clothes in such a carefree but considered manner. 

Unfortunately, the store is now closing, going the way of Louis Boston and Harvard Square’s J. Press. While wrapped in a brown checked tweed and duo-toned scarf, Simone remained composed throughout his Facebook video, but was also visibly choked up. “This is a peculiar message for you all. It’s a thank you message for everyone who came to meet me, who came here to my shop, a shop that’s like a home to me,” he started. “To all those people, I want to say thank you for giving me your trust and for letting me create a connection with you, for a few minutes or a few years, so that I could give you a tool for you to express your personality. Thank you for letting me grow and express my creativity. Thank you for your kindness. This, however, is a peculiar thank you message because it’s also a goodbye. A part of my life is coming to an end, a part that includes my profession. My shop here in Florence is closing. I truly hope we can meet again on some future project because it has all been really beautiful.” His last Instagram post is of two people hugging. 

If you were just getting into menswear ten years ago, you likely updated your wardrobe in one of two directions. The first was the sort of skinny lapeled, Mod-inspired tailoring that prevailed after Mad Men debuted in 2007; the second was a sleek and colorful “metrosexual” style that was represented through Queer Eye for the Straight Guy. Those two looks dominated the editorial pages of GQ and Esquire, who showed the before-and-after transformations of men who learned how to buy slimmer clothing – and get things made slimmer still through a local alterations tailor. 

Today, those transformations are running in the opposite direction. Silhouettes are filling out and dressing like a dad is coming back in. High-fashion boutiques now stock the kind of “sensible” clothes your father likely buys from Kohl’s: relaxed-fit jeans; vacation shirts; schlubby tennis shoes; tactical fanny packs; and pastel-colored, washed-cotton caps (“they’re soft, shapeless, and familiar – just like dad,” writes Pete Anderson at Put This On). Mr. Porter even stocks the most fatherly of leg coverings this season: zip-off cargo pants that convert into cargo shorts, giving value-minded fathers a two-for-one (which is good since Mr. Porter’s version is a mind-boggling $1,000).

You can chalk some of this up to the fashion cycle. Once a look becomes popular, first adopters move on, thus swinging the pendulum in the other direction (fuller silhouettes give way to skinny silhouettes until the second collapses and fuller styles prevail again). The other is about the rising influence of Demna Gvasalia, the Georgian designer who led the design team at Maison Margiela before becoming the creative head at Balenciaga and his own label Vetements. When he showed his spring collection last year at the verdant Bois de Boulogne park in Paris, he sent models down the runway in “oversized color-striped windbreakers, pale jeans similar to those that made Barack Obama dad-in-chief, and bloated running shoes in the style of podiatrist-approved Asics.” Male models even carried children, the most literal interpretation of the trend. Dad style today is so au courant, Democratic Vice Presidential nominee Tim Kaine even tweeted about it. 

In a firm-wide email sent Tuesday, the top-brass at Goldman Sachs told employees they’re loosening the company’s fashion standard. Historically known as a white-shoe investment bank, Goldman Sachs will be joining the Silicon Valley crowd by allowing its 36,000 employees to shed their coat-and-tie uniform and put on more casual attire. This shift would have been inconceivable thirty years ago when bankers relied on sober suits to earn their clients’ confidence. But as Goldman Sachs CEO David Solomon wrote in the memo, workplaces today are more casual and he wants to accommodate a younger workforce. One Goldman Sachs employee told GQ yesterday the firm’s dress code has actually been loosening for years. Still, the person noted, “all the men are psyched." 

So if bankers no longer wear banker stripes, what should they wear? The email didn’t specify. The management only said they want employees to dress in a manner that accords with the company’s and clients’ expectations (whatever that means). "We trust you will consistently exercise good judgment in this regard,” they wrote ominously. “All of us know what is and is not appropriate for the workplace." 

This is the problem with modern dress codes. Hard-written rules have been replaced by softly coded norms, which leaves many confused on how they’re supposed to dress. Are grey flannel trousers too dressy? Are sneakers too sloppy? What should I wear for the meeting or office party? When the accounting firm Crowe Horwath gave up on the coat-and-tie a few years ago, they had to film a video explaining what was not acceptable. 

For many men of my generation, who grew up in the 1980s and ‘90s, our first introduction to classic style was at a Ralph Lauren store. That’s where we fell in love with things such as sporting tweeds, chambray work shirts, and the chalky hand of ancient madder. Ralph Lauren didn’t invent these things, of course, but they presented them in a way that felt sexy. Brooks Brothers has been many things, but it has never been sexy. 

In some ways, Drake’s is doing that for a younger generation, albeit at a much smaller scale. As the brand has expanded beyond just accessories, taking on tailoring and sportswear, it’s been able to present a fuller vision of how classic style can be worn today. These lookbooks have become incredibly popular in recent years, often getting posted on sites such as Reddit’s Male Fashion Advice within minutes of their release. And much like how Ralph Lauren helped translate classic style for me, I think Drake’s is putting a new spin on the language. Instead of showing pinstripe suits in luxuriously paneled offices, with decor reminiscent of an expensive lawyer’s sanctum, they feature softer takes on classic menswear in more relatable environs. Tweeds and duffle coats are shown being worn at university campuses, seersucker suits in Southern diners, and brushed Shetlands on moss-covered, rocky shores. 

This season, the team went to Lanzarote, one of the seven main Canary Islands located just off the coast of Morocco. It’s a short four-hour plane ride from London, making it a popular fly-and-flop destination for vacationing Brits (many retreat there for some much-needed winter warmth). But for Drake’s, the subtropical archipelago was also an excellent solution to a real problem. How do you shoot a spring/ summer lookbook in the middle of January, when it’s snowing in London? To show their collection in a warmer clime, they headed to the one place known as the “Island of Eternal Spring.” 

If you were on social media in 2016, you probably remember the Great Cargo Pocket War. It all started with an innocent article in The Wall Street Journal about how bulky cargo shorts were driving a wedge between people in their relationships. One of the men in the story said that, in the course of his 11-year marriage, he’s noticed as many as fifteen pairs of cargo shorts go missing. On the occasions he’s asked his wife about them, she admits to throwing them out or deflects to another subject. He’s now down to just one pair, which he guards closely (they’re hidden in a small nook somewhere). “I don’t let her get her hands on them,” he said. “I wish I had caught on sooner.”

Tom Lommel, an actor in Los Angeles, said he loves cargo shorts because they’re like wearing “socially acceptable sweatpants.” He reserves them for when his wife is away from home, however, because wearing them feels like he’s breaking a marriage vow. “I wish that were the truth,” his wife disputes. “If he was only wearing them when I could not look at him, that would be perfect.”

The article sparked a fierce internet debate. Fans of the style say cargo shorts are hard wearing, easier to move in, and practical in terms of storage space. Detractors say no one human being needs that many pockets. Cargo shorts and their related pants have become the symbol of aging frat-bros, uncool dads, and the sort of people who carry vape pens, tactical knives, and Soundgarden CDs on their body. Cargo pocket defender and International Relations professor Dan Drezner went a step further when he wrote in The Washington Post: “Cargo shorts are great and anyone who opposes them should just acknowledge their misandry and be done with it. […] Any article of clothing that helped defeat Hitler is an article of clothing that should never go out of style.”

For the truly fashion-obsessed, the shuttering of Gallagher’s Paper Collectibles ten years ago marked the end-of-an-era. The dingy, subterranean shop in the East Village was one of New York City’s greatest institutions. Inside was a veritable treasure trove of vintage fashion magazines, books, and photo prints. Stacked in corners and along shelves, you could find Vogue in all its editions, dusty issues of Harper’s Bazaar, 100-year-old copies of Town & Country, the now-defunct Mademoiselle, and more arcane titles, some of which were published in the 1860s. 

If you think this is just a local hangout for art students and the occupationally hip, you’d be wrong. In between preparing for their seasonal collections, award-winning designers used to come here to rifle through yellowed pages and plunder archives. Michael Gallagher, the store’s proprietor, once told The New York Times: “We get them all, Hedi Slimane, Karl Lagerfeld, Marc Jacobs big time, John Varvatos, Narciso Rodriguez, the Calvin assistants, the Gucci assistants, Dolce & Gabbana, Anna Sui – you name it. They all come here for inspiration. At least that’s what we call it.”

It’s no secret that designers copy. Menswear is full of work, sport, and military references, some of which have carried through into a professional dress. Penny and tassel loafers entered the canon because they were so thoroughly imitated. In the designer world, Tom Ford has been known to lift from Halston; Alexander McQueen stole from Vivienne Westwood. Helmut Lang once moved his operation from NYC to Paris to thwart copycats, but he himself replicated a disco bag from the indie design collective Three As Four. Diet Prada tries to publicly shame designers for copying, but with notable exceptions, they have little effect. Everyone knows how fashion works. When Oprah asked Ralph Lauren in 2011 how he’s been able to keep designing for so many years, he answered: “You copy. Forty-five years of copying; that’s why I’m here.”

Selkirk is a small Scottish town perched on a hillside overlooking the Ettrick Water, a tributary of the fast-flowing River Tweed, which is where some say Scotland’s most famous fabric got its name. For generations, the people here were celebrated for their shoemaking skills, but like other Border towns, Selkirk was eventually swept into the woolens trade. People have been weaving fabric in the Scottish Borders since at least the Middle Ages, but the trade for much of this time was small, rural-based, and organized through a scattered cottage industry. In the old days, Scottish tweeds were woven at home from local and native wools, often Cheviots that were spun into woolen yarns. Whatever was made was only worn by the local people. 

This all changed sometime around the turn of the 18th century. With the signing of the Treaty of Union, Scotland and England became new state of Great Britain. The Industrial Revolution was just starting to emerge and Hawick received its first four knitting frames. Certain towns – Hawick, Galashiels, and Selkirk, included – were conveniently located along the main roads connecting Edinburgh and Carlisle. This gave them access to London and other major cities, helping them distribute finished woolen goods and, when steam power replaced water, bring in fuel. More importantly, the Union gave Scotland better trade opportunities with Britain’s colonies around the world. Soon, people as far flung as India and the Americas were wearing Scottish tweeds and tartans. 

What the first wave of globalization gave, the second took away. Like other Border towns, Selkirk is quieter now. The looms stopped chattering a long time ago and today the town is better known for its bannocks, a type of dry fruitcake. During the heyday of Scottish manufacturing, the knitwear trade employed nearly 10,000 people – more if you counted wovens. Hawick had sixteen mills and Pringle alone produced more than 66,000 garments per week. These days, Hawick has half that number and Pringle has long offshored their production. Last week, one of Scotland’s three remaining Harris Tweed mills, Carloway, suddenly stopped production and is facing possible closure. Five years ago, Caerlee Mills, makers of the legendary Ballantyne, shut off their machines after 225 years operation (the building was soon after demolished).