When it comes to male fashion, neckties are becoming 'stranded assets'

An old friend insisted on calling his home country of Iran by its traditional name of Persia, an overt acknowledgement that its modern leaders had failed its people and its culture, and that Cyrus the Great wasn’t going to be walking through the door anytime soon.

So, wouldn't you know, Iran is now embracing men’s neckties, after long shunning them on “Western decadence” grounds.

"I think a man looks chic with one,” Mohammad Javad told CBS News. “Unfortunately, we Iranians have imposed strange and unnecessary restrictions on ourselves."

That’s great, except … Iran appears to be embracing neckties just as they’re going out of style everywhere else.

New York Times economist and proud necktie procurer/wearer Peter Coy recently lamented the situation, noting that in economic parlance, male neckties are a “stranded asset” like top hats, typewriters and Brooke Shields.

He confessed to having 252 of these anachronisms in his closet, and he came as close as you can in an 18-column-inch piece of painstakingly describing each one.

Like Peter, my first tie was a clip-on, used solely for church. I hated both with the somewhat illogical intensity of 6-year-old boys who consider themselves men, if not in fashion, in their perceived ability to make decisions independent of parental bureaucracy.

Clip-ons are a subgenre of necktieism, worn in conjunction with short pants as a general thing and only by “babies” (in the cruel assessment of third-grade girls) and by interior linemen on the football team compelled to dress up for school on game days. Ridiculing them — “Ha-ha, big baby is wearing a clip-on” — would have had zero effect, partly because they would have had no clue what was meant by “clip-on" and partly because it wasn’t worth the risk of being stuffed head first into a floor-length urinal.

At my first job, the boss insisted men wear ties, which meant I had to go out and buy one, a heartbreaking waste of funds that would have been better spent at 50-cent draft night at Red’s.

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I still remember it: brown with diagonal ivory stripes, an article of fashion camouflage that went with everything and nothing all at the same time.

The first time I put actual thought into the purchase of a necktie was when I became a “serious journalist” covering the Maryland state capital. Male reporters were required to wear coats and ties on the House and Senate floors, which we defiantly took as a challenge to be as poorly well-dressed as possible.

So Every Single Reporter wound up wearing a uniform consisting of khaki pants, blue Oxford button down shirt, red (they don’t show ketchup) necktie and a coat that looked as if the sorter at Goodwill had just told the store manager that there was no way in good conscience she could put THAT one on the rack. And sneakers.

It looked as if we were all part of some hideous synchronized-accountant dance recital, to the point I rebelled and started buying up every article of designer clothing I could afford. Against all odds, this act of counter counterculture defiance earned grudging respect, to the point that even the sloppiest wire-service reporter showed up in a chalk stripe suit. Still wearing sneakers, but hey, one step at a time.

So I didn’t have 252 ties, but I had a lot, and about 10 years ago when I hadn’t worn a necktie in ages and realized I might never again, I sat soberly down on the bed with a mountain of ties by my side, carefully handling and evaluating each and every one. It would be good to keep one or two just in case, but most never again see the light of day, so one after the other I said my painful goodbyes to those I could stand to part with.

I still have about 50 left. Tell Mohammad Javad they’re there for the taking.

Tim Rowland is a Herald-Mail columnist.

This article originally appeared on The Herald-Mail: Love-hate relationship with neckties overshadow male fashion's decline