Learning to Love Pleats

March 04, 2017 | Filed in: Your Closet

My disdain for pleats dates back to second grade, when I banished a pair of offending Gap Kids corduroys from my closet. (In my defense, they also had an elasticized waistband.) Later, at the authoritative age of 10, I told my mom to steer clear, too. “They’re unflattering on everyone,” I told her. When I first watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off, in my early teens, Sloane’s pleated shorts caused me considerable distress—it seemed implausible that any movie’s Hot Girl would wear such a ridiculous outfit.

At the time, fashion had already veered away from the puffy, voluminous pants of the ‘80s and early ‘90s, and was beginning to swing to the opposite extreme. By the early aughts, when I was in high school, low-slung bottoms were the way to go. Hip-hugging Juicy Couture sweats became an unfortunate staple in my closet, and magazines were dominated by stars like Britney Spears and Christina Aguilera, who were locked in a battle of ever-expanding midriffs. The overarching message was clear: the less fabric in the hip area, the better. High-waisted anything was a non-starter, and pleats? Well, with the exception of miniskirts, they didn’t even enter the equation.

In the years since, I have softened my stance on higher waists (fine on some people, but not on me), and thrown out all of my Juicy sweats (save one beloved pair, which I only wear at home and out of sight). However, my early impressions of pleats have stood strong: Like exaggerated shoulder pads, they were one of those fashion mirages that could only be “pulled off” by models or other extremely stylish (and slim) people. I kept a healthy distance.

Then I came to work at MM, and suddenly, pleats were everywhere. At first, I was resistant—the Nakamura trouser looked good on my colleagues, but I’d stick to my skinny jeans, thanks. Then, one chilly winter afternoon a few months ago, I ventured into the showroom and, just for kicks, tried on the Recoleta pant. It broke all my normal rules: a long rise, a wide leg, and prominent pleating in front. And I loved them. They’re sleek and sophisticated and make me feel like Katharine Hepburn, minus the cheekbones. I now own them in two colors.

The Recoleta pant in French blue, with the Louisa top and Lange cardigan in black.

A well-placed pleat, I now realize, does not add volume—instead, it breaks up the hip area and creates elongating lines down the leg. Pleated pants are also comfortable, and provide room to swish, stride, and welcome the effect of gusty winds on your outfit.

Pleats also play well with my other sartorial anathema, the high-waisted silhouette. In addition to the cultural aversion I developed as a teenager, high waists usually tend to make my long, straight torso appear even more snake-y and trunk-like. However, when pleats enter the picture, they balance out my lack of a defined middle, and the result is downright proportional. Who knew?

The Nakamura trouser and the Barton shirt in ivory.

As for pleated dresses, well—that seemed like another story. Then the Masha became a sleeper hit in the office. “It didn’t look like something I’d want to wear,” one co-worker told me, “until I tried it on.” Naturally, I was curious, as it did look nice on everyone—the pleating helps create an hourglass shape, or so I was told.

The Masha 2.0 dress in pinstripe.

Once I took it for a spin, I saw what all the fuss was about. The pleats allow for big pockets (sizable enough to fit my hands when I don’t know where else to put them, which is often) and add a retro air that’s more chic ’40s than boxy ’80s. The dress made me feel cool, collected, and adult, like I might know my way around a wine list and read The Economist every week. Fake it ’til you make it, I say.

So there you have it: I’m officially a pleats convert. (And mom, you’re welcome to them, too.)