Denim, I Was Wrong
Written by Hash Rifai
Once upon a time, I vowed never to wear jeans again. A garment that brings little comfort to the wearer. Stiff, scratchy, and a poor regulator of temperature. In hot weather, a leg shrouded in denim will pour sweat like a shawarma skewer; in cold weather, it will make the wearer feel as though they’re wearing cardboard. No, jeans were not for me. Instead, I favoured pleated woollen trousers: warm, as comfortable as a pair of pyjama bottoms, and, when cut correctly, flattering.
My vow, however, was not to last. Marriage saw to that. My mother-in-law lives in the Norfolk countryside, and we visit her often. Before marriage, I rarely, if ever, left the confines of the M25, and my city wardrobe was ill-equipped for rural life. On these trips, my pleated trousers were snagged by brambles, thorns, and the claws of my mother-in-law’s Staffordshire terrier. Enough was enough. I needed trousers that could withstand the abuse, so I purchased a pair of stonewashed Levi’s 501s, and tail between my legs, discovered that jeans are deserving of far more respect than I had afforded them.
Denim takes its name from serge de Nîmes, a tough twill woven in southern France, while “jeans” derives from Genoa, where sailors wore hard-wearing trousers built for labour and the salty sea air. In 19th-century America, Levi Strauss, a German merchant, and Jacob Davis, a tailor, imported these garments and reinforced them with copper rivets to prevent tearing. The result was near indestructibility. They were tough, simple, and dyed a forgiving shade of blue that concealed everything from coal dust to spilt whisky. Miners loved them. So did railroad men. By the end of the 20th century, everyone wore them: rich, poor, famous, jeans did not discriminate.
To understand denim is to understand twill: a diagonal weave that gives the fabric its strength and flexibility. What makes denim denim is that only the warp threads — the vertical ones — are dyed, typically with indigo, while the weft threads — the horizontal ones — remain white. This is why denim fades rather than simply wearing out. Beautifully, unevenly, and in a way that says, “I’ve lived.”
Jeans have also, in the unique way that fashion does, mirrored the cultural mood. In the 1950s, they became a quiet act of rebellion — worn low, tight, and ripped, and adopted as the uniform of disaffected youth who saw themselves as sticking up a middle finger to puritanical society. The 1960s and 70s loosened the silhouette. Flares and worn-in denim reflected a counterculture that rejected structure in politics, society, and dress. Personalised with patches conveying the wearer’s ideology, jeans became expressive rather than confrontational. In the 1980s, denim stiffened and sharpened. Jeans were no longer anti-establishment; they were aspirational, branded by newly established fashion houses during a decade obsessed with image and ambition. The 1990s responded with slack. Baggy, low-slung jeans — favoured by the hip-hop and grunge crowds — signalled a rejection of a polished image. Jeans were worn with a deliberately careless attitude. Then came the 2000s, and with them the skinny jean, followed — when skinny was not skinny enough — by the jegging. These jeans compressed silhouettes, which suited an era of digital visibility, prioritising outline over comfort. After lockdown, years lived in jersey and loungewear, denim softened once more. Looser, more forgiving fits returned: wide legs, relaxed cuts, higher waists — clothes designed to accommodate bodies rather than discipline them. Looking around today, it seems that the Y2K revival is in full swing: ultra-low rises, glittery embellishments. A return to nostalgia and excess, and proof that denim doesn’t move forward without first looking back.
And lastly, denim cannot be discussed without a polite but serious bow to Japanese denim. After World War II, Japan did what it often does best: it took an American idea and made it better. While the U.S. moved to mass production and polyester in good old capitalist fashion, Japanese mills quietly acquired old American shuttle looms and began producing denim the way it was intended: slowly, obsessively, and beautifully. The result is a textured, deeply dyed denim that is almost indestructible. It does cost a lot more, but a buyer’s philosophy should always be to buy once and buy well.
So there it is, my education in denim, which I present to you. I was premature in declaring that I would never wear jeans again. I now humbly realise that jeans are the cornerstone of a well-rounded wardrobe and deserving of much respect.