At 3 a.m., in an Uber in Mexico City, I decided to go cold turkey on black loafers.
There had been five of us at the bar that night, all visiting from various U.S. cities. All men, ages 28 to 30, with three pairs of acetate glasses and multiple curly pseudo-mullets between us. (Last summer, there were anti-gentrification protests in the neighborhood about exactly this situation.) When we stepped outside for a cigarette, I looked down, and noticed another thing in common: We were all wearing nearly identical leather loafers. The five-man footwear flush was hard to stomach.
After that, I was haunted by loafers, like when you notice a playing card on the sidewalk then start to see them everywhere. But I couldn’t quit wearing them. My girlfriend and I both wore black loafers to a recent dinner date—the North Brooklyn equivalent of a couple in matching Jordans. When New York City saw its first hot days this month, the skimpy shorts/black loafers guys reemerged like cicadas, going for Paul Mescal but looking like Prince George. When I attended a wedding this spring, I counted well over a dozen pairs of black loafers, including my own. At best, I felt I was being ruthlessly, relentlessly swaggerjacked. How could all these jamokes end up with shoes like mine? But after some hard self-reflection, I can admit it. I’ve gotten lazy. I’m the one dressing like every other guy in town.
I don’t blame myself for falling for the black-loafer trap, just as you can’t blame the loafer for the crime of being too perfect. Everyone brought them to Mexico City for the same reasons: they’re comfortable enough to walk around in, they class up your outfit, and they go with everything. Indeed, this very magazine recently suggested twenty-six ways to wear loafers. And in theory, that should be enough ways for everybody to find their own. But in my own reality, it’s just five nerdy guys wearing the exact same shoes.
But what would a post-loafer world look like? Find out here.
