Our Uniform, Vol. 4: It Is To Loaf

With a collective interest in aesthetics, of course, some of the strongest bonds for us have come from sharing fashion we love. Our styles vary, without a doubt, as we each have our own histories, proportions, and even color mood preferences, but it’s not uncommon for us to gravitate toward the same pieces over time, and even wear them at the same time. Every coven has a uniform, after all. In this series, we discuss our forever pieces, and how we wear them. Think of it as a “How To Dress Like The Attic.”

Photography by Raquel Reyes.

loafer

[ˈlōfər]

NOUN

loafer (noun) · loafers (plural noun)

1. a person who idles time away.

   synonyms: idler · layabout · ne'er-do-well · lounger · lazybones

2. a leather shoe shaped like a moccasin, with a low flat heel.

   "handmade Italian loafers"

via The Oxford English Dictionary.

The first time a loafer was seen in the annals of American prep was in the early 19th century. It was actually a moccasin. And it was in Canada. 

European settlers to the Indigenous land admired the shoes worn by the land’s original owners, and like many other styles of costume they found there (blanket coats anyone?), adopted and adapted them for their own purposes — in the case of shoes, to making them with thicker, more durable hides as opposed to the softer skins used by the indigenous peoples. In the States, the loafer finally made its appearance in the 1930s, as flat shoes became popular and the industrial revolution introduced mass production. 

Originally a men’s shoe, this iteration was inspired by those seen on Norwegian fisherman and became the prep standard we know today thanks to (will this be a surprise?) teenage girls, stealing loafers and oxfords from men as the finishing article to their iconic uniform of pleated skirts paired with fitted pullover sweaters. By the 1980s, as New England prep styles began the resurgent takeover that continues to this day, a true wardrobe was nothing without at least a single, well made pair. Nowadays the style exists in countless iterations, from the classic sturdy weejun to fanciful luxury numbers, embedded with ribbons, stripes, or even a colorful print and chunky heel for the more outgoing amongst us. 

At The Attic, the loafer has been a mainstay beyond our inception, to our days as students and the early days of friendship, just another thing to bond over and discuss at the start of every autumn like new knits or note-taking supplies. We wear them together, we wear them apart, and we wear them *practically* everyday whether for everyday activities or simply to feel a little bit put together lunging at home. Most importantly, we wear them with each our own flair. Here, our preppiest editors, Zoë G. Burnett, Olivia Gündüz-Willemin, and Raquel Reyes tell you more about our favorite shoe.

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Photography by Zoë G. Burnett.

Zoë G. Burnett

There’s an odd finality to knowing that you’ll never need to buy another pair of loafers. Around this time last year, business took me to the Alden Shoe Company in Middleborough, Massachusetts, last among the former multitude of New England boot and shoemakers to fabricate their wares entirely on site. Legendary in menswear circles, Alden briefly made women’s shoes in the 1980s until the demand for “what’s next” put a stop to that. The brand remains impervious to trends; Alden’s best-selling styles have endured since decades before then, and their on-site restoration services ensure longevity.  

We had the rare privilege of being shown the entire shoemaking process from beginning to end, and for once I wasn’t thinking of what to buy at the end of our tour. While my coworker tried on a pair of black patent leather ‘Point Toe Bal’ oxfords for his upcoming wedding, I wistfully regretted that there were no deadstock women’s shoes kicking around the warehouse. Our host paused, asked my shoe size, and said, “Wait right here.” I held my breath as he disappeared into the stacks, reemerging momentarily with a forest green box on his shoulder and lightly jogging towards us with excitement. He lifted the dusty lid to reveal a diminutive pair of genuine Horween Shell Cordovan ‘Leisure’ loafers from their individual storage bags, then ceremoniously offered a chair and shoe horn, handing them to me with much aplomb. Donning the final pair of their discontinued boys’ line in a leather that’s becoming increasingly difficult to find, I surrendered to fate. 

Having spent last September through February breaking in my new lifelong companions, it was a pleasure to greet them again this season. One of the sturdiest pairs I own, these shoes have already seen some action. Regular care is essential, of course, especially with the unforgiving ice melt and salt that grinds our brick sidewalks for at least half the year. The pandemic has dented my usual mode as a woman about town, but I plan to make a point of wearing the loafers often. More formal than carpet slippers and the essential knee-high boots of the season, there’s no better loafer for being out and about on a fine Fall day, pretending you have something important to do.

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Photography by Olivia Gündüz-Willemin.

Olivia Gündüz-Willemin

Loafers have been a lifelong friend. I wore them as a kid, along with saddle shoes and the various buckled shoes synonymous with American childhood, but I’ve truly embraced them as an adult. I bought one navy tassel pair in 2013, interestingly in a small shop tucked away in the streets of Istanbul, and it’s been a spiral since then, going from being a classic staple to becoming the only style of shoe I ever truly want to wear anymore. 

Loafers are beautiful shoes – versatile and appropriate for almost every occasion; they’re solid and will take you on long autumn walks as well as through light winter snow; they go with everything – always classic but these days, fun too. And they’re infinitely better than heels. I’ve never been big on heels – I can walk in them just fine, thanks to many teenage afternoons spent practicing with books balanced atop my head (a voluntary endeavor) but I’m also 5ft10 and have found neither necessity nor comfort in them. Realizing I could dump them for more loafers and other interesting flats was a joy that I still haven’t gotten over. Afterall, the loafer does so much more. It brings formality to a casual getup while also bringing the formal back down a notch. In the past year or so, I’ve even started wearing loafers with dresses or velvet trousers to the opera and found it to be a delight. 

Whether they’re black, classic and sleek or shiny and burgundy or camel and tasseled, I can’t get enough. I have a black patent leather pair that does its job beautifully, letting me feel gloriously dressed up walking down a leaf covered street during the day or playfully casual at night. A burgundy penny loafer keeps me company on most days, walking to work and sitting in coffee shops. A black, buckled pair remains a soft favorite, though I’ve replaced its sole three times now, and worn around quite a few places in the world, from Switzerland to Paris to London and DC (often twinning with Raquel). A new glossy camel pair waits to be broken in, and I know it won’t be my only new pair this year. Once you loaf, you can never undo it. 

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Photography by Raquel Reyes.

Raquel Reyes

Ahh, loafers. Where does one even begin when talking about the love of their life? My affection towards all men’s style shoes began naturally, with my love of menswear and academic dressing. Having grown up standing out in ruffled frocks and maximalist colors, I found it refreshing to skip all that every once in a while, stealing my father and older brother’s shirts, pullovers, and blazers for easier clothing options in a school system where every shoulder exposed or cleavage peek became cause for scandal. Of course, I paired the styles with pleated skirts or denim, not yet discovering my current obsession with trousers. Menswear was a respite — classic, affordable pieces with more room to breathe for a girl who didn’t exactly have the money or clothing size for the trendy mall brands all of my girlfriends wore. 

At university, my style evolved exponentially, but with it remained my fondness for stealing clothes from the boys, and even shopping the menswear section at Goodwill exclusively for old Brooks Brothers oxfords and broken-in Weejuns to pair with my full skirts and knits. When it comes to brand loyalty, my heart has resided with G.H. Bass longer than any living, sentient male, and so I call it the real thing. My first, and since signature pair, was an oxblood number that I wore to pieces (literally) from their purchase my second year of university until their demise on a business trip to Nashville three years ago, when my toe broke through the leather running down a hill for coffee. The shining moment in that pair’s long life was the day I wore them during a museum internship in which I assisted the inimitable André Leon Talley, and he complimented me on them over lunch. They have since been replaced with an identical pair, and for that brilliant second alone I will probably wear oxblood Weejuns the rest of my life.

Since university (and thanks to their outburst in popularity), my loafer collection has grown, too. Working retail in my early twenties they became a staple for their comfort and ability to fit any employee dress code. I collected a couple of softer, suede pairs that have since become house slippers (in that ever so perfect ode to the word’s definition) and throw-ons for quick errands, and at the great Gucci slide birth of 2018 found a couple of similar styles that are late summer, early autumn staples for transitioning my wardrobe. Like Olivia, I’ve also got a dressier pair (embossed patent leather with a pointed toe) that perfectly blends a dressy, menswear silhouette with my beloved witchy tendencies and thus pairs with literally everything in my wardrobe. In their most worn form, they either dress up casual denim or add a stark, masculine note to my collection of full, flowery autumnal dresses. No matter the outfit, I enjoy wearing loafers over tights or interesting socks, though the iconic bare ankle of the living prep magnum opus has its respected place in my rotation as well. After all, the classics deserve their reverence.

As 2020 rages on and I find ultimate comfort in forgetting rules and dressing the way that makes my heart sing, I’ve learned that most often the best look is one I would have absolutely lived to wear in my youth. Elaborate, fearless, flowery, with just the right touch of stolen-from-the-boys edge. The pieces may change, but the girl remains the same.

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Historical information from Raquel’s brain and second year History of Fashion notes. 

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Zoë G. Burnett is a writer, film enthusiast, and ad woman based in Massachusetts. A lover of all things spooky and sparkly, she is currently working on her first book about witchcraft and classic style. Zoë is a Contributing Editor and The Attic on Eighth’s Film Columnist.

Olivia Gündüz-Willemin is Editor-in-Chief of The Attic on Eighth. She is dedicated to reading her way through the world and trying to stay as calm as possible.

Raquel Reyes is Creative Director at The Attic on Eighth. She enjoys styling photo shoots, old fashioned cocktails, and reading every book published on a single topic she can find.