I'll see your half-Windsor and raise you a four-in-hand

I was recently asked by a Facebook friend to expound on (using her words) “the sartorial faux pas of the overly long, shiny, Scotch tape affixed, four-in-hand knot necktie.”

I assume she was talking about Donald J. Trump, our alternative president who, despite his wealth, seems to own only one dark suit, some white dress shirts (never blue or beige) and three neckties – one red, one light blue and one with blue and white stripes.

Up until that time I hadn’t really thought much about Trump and his neckties, although I have noticed that his ties are about a foot longer than they need to be. I don’t know what he’s hiding under those extra 12 inches, nor do I want to know.

However, my friend’s request for comment was so eloquent and so well-phrased that I couldn’t let it pass without writing something back to her, so I recalled a brief essay I had once written about the necktie in general. I’m going to repeat it here on the shieldWALL, and who knows? I may even add a few new lines.

It was back in the late ’80s or early ’90s, as I recall, when neckties were wide and very loud. I had just come from a newspaper job where I wore jeans and t-shirts to work and now I had to wear a suit every day. This was long before “business casual,” and I really wasn’t all that into neckties.

Best I can recall, my original essay went something like this:

I’d like to meet the guy who invented neckties. I mean, who thought it was a good idea to rip down the draperies, cut them into strips, make a noose and then tie it around your own neck? Seriously, is this really a fashion statement or the preamble to suicide?

And how did he decide how to tie the tie? If no one had ever done it before, there was no one to teach him the various knots the way my father taught me…but somebody had to go first, right?

That means that someone, somewhere, some time, had to stand in front of a mirror with the first necktie in hand and say, “OK, I think I’ll start out like this. I’ll hang it around my neck like a scarf, then pull this end down and wrap this over this way… and then go around just so… and then maybe wrap that back over the other way… and then I think I’ll tuck this part in here and pull it tight while (gag, cough) sliding... it... up... like... this...

"Yes. Perfect."

The guy most likely was an Englishman. I mean, who else would think up something like that? He was probably so proud that he ran down the street to the Four-in-Hand Club in downtown London to show off his new idea. There, the conversation would have gone something like this:

“Well, isn’t that lovely, Charles? I see you’ve tied a strip of drapery around your neck. That’s quite splashy indeed, old chap. What do you call that knot you’ve made?”

“I hadn’t thought of a name, Sir Edmund, but since we’re here, how about we call it the four-in-hand knot?”

“Splendid. Care for tea?”

I can only assume that similar conversations took place following the invention of the Windsor and half-Windsor knots. I always preferred the full-Windsor myself, believing that if you’re going to go Windsor at all, you don’t want to cheat yourself out of half of it.

Ultimately, the kind of knot you tie in your necktie depends on the length of the tie itself, and that brings us back to the four-in-hand knot and that curious roll of Scotch tape. On the back of a necktie there’s a little strip of material affixed to the wide end where you can tuck in the shorter, narrow end for a neater appearance and to keep your tie parts from flapping about in the breeze.

Sometimes, however, the short end isn’t long enough to reach the tuck-in receptacle, so people have been known to roll up some Scotch tape, sticky side out, and fasten the short end to the back of the long end.

I have to confess that I, myself, have on occasion used rolled up scotch tape to hold my ties together, which may be the only thing I ever had in common with Donald J. Trump. I thought I was being clever by doing that until I found out that he does it, too.

Now I just feel ashamed.