It often feels as if the so-called ‘Oxford bubble’ is full of binaries: commoners and scholars, undergraduate and postgraduate, town and gown. These dualities are neatly emblematised through the medium of fashion – not only through our academic gowns and sub fusc, but through other, more implicit, rules of dress.
A friend recently pointed out to me the tell-tale sign of a summer school student roaming Oxford’s streets during the long vacation: their sweatshirt or baseball cap sports the title “Oxford University” in the American tradition, whereas we students all know it’s really the “University of Oxford”. As this illustrates, even without the obligatory college puffers of Michaelmas term, there are markers in clothing that distinguish insiders from outsiders. Similar unofficial fashion rules, often shrouded in mystery for incoming freshers, also formalise divisions within the student body itself.
I remember the confusion of Freshers’ Week, and, in particular, the struggle of interpreting variations of smart dress codes for endless events. After all, there’s no information available on the University website about what to wear for the Warden’s welcome drinks, or your college admission ceremony. The latter was chaotic: the freshers’ group chat erupted into panic, and students turned up in everything from jeans, to sixth-form blazers, to evening dresses. Even into my second year, I find myself questioning exactly what one wears to a cocktail garden party, or to a wine and cheese event.
These are the sorts of events that most of us have never had the chance to experience before, and faced with both a lack of intel and funds, they can be incredibly daunting. While formals alone are challenging fashion-wise, college balls are a completely different ballgame. Purchasing white or black tie on top of a ticket can be incredibly expensive. It’s not only the dress (or the tails) – there are shoes, jewellery, and bags to be thought of.
The resultant divisions, between those who can afford these luxuries and those who cannot, aren’t just evident in occasion-wear, either. There are codes even to everyday fashion at Oxford – one needs only to view the sheer extent of Barbour jackets on display to know this. Daily wear at Oxford verges on the smarter side, more so than at some other universities in the UK. This may be because of practicality, intellectual snobbery, or the glimmerings of a dark academia fantasy (it’s likely all three). There’s even a divide between undergraduates and postgraduates, the latter of which always appear to me more business-like and professional.
Despite the proliferation of all these codes, we are simultaneously witnessing a greater inclination towards intellectual creativity in the Oxford fashion scene. When I sat down to hate-watch Netflix’s My Oxford Year, the sheer sameness of the fashion was what grievously offended me: its erasure of any characterful, worn, or well-loved clothing. It’s a contributing factor to why it feels like such a personality vacuum of a film. The sameness is a gross misrepresentation of an Oxford fashion community which seems, despite its rules, to only be becoming more diverse, imaginative, and inspired.
Aesthetic trends will always exist, but in this city fashionable individuality is no less celebrated than conformism, especially with the rise of second-hand shopping. Oxford is special in this regard – I’m often struck by the sheer variety of clothes on display in the Old Bodleian or on Broad Street. When I see students dressing in a distinctive, creative way, I never pause to wonder at their unique style or speculate if they’re freshers, as of yet unfamiliar with all the secret rules of dress. Instead, I find myself admiring what has become in itself an unofficial fashion code – that the most impressive style must be uniquely your own. Ultimately, this code will endure beyond all others.
