A dressing down

Photo: Pip Farquharson

Today I spotted my first pet greyhound of the season. Straining on a leash, its sleek back arched like the hood ornament of an expensive car as it crapped on the pavement across the road from the Bondi Hotel. It was a stylish effort.

I mentioned it to a friend who has rarely met a dog she couldn't love — apart from mini labradoodles, which are too much like old bathmats with feet. She assured me that having a greyhound is all the rage, almost a fashion statement.

Certainly the glossy example I saw had the shimmering charcoal hue of fine tailoring, not the more common brown of adopted also-rans mercifully rescued from the culls of a racing circuit.

The dog's owner was equally well turned out, with a smart dress, recent haircut and expensive shoes, all something of an anomaly for Bondi where we don't generally dress up. Ours is a beach culture where people tend to show off their bodies rather than their wardrobes.

You do occasionally see young chaps sporting gender fluid get-ups that must have taken some time to put together, or older women with statement spectacles and drapey layers of vivid patterns left over from a stint in Asia. But anything approaching haute couture? Never, unless you found it in an op shop.

For men in Bondi, wearing a shirt with a collar is seen as making an effort and the only blokes that bother to tuck them in are real estate agents.

Shorts, thongs, jeans, sneakers, beanies and T-shirts are more the go, and perhaps some athletic leisurewear to give a better silhouette than old-school tracky daks and ugh boots. It's liberating to dress down.

For a number of years, I fronted up for weekly meetings at a university business school where the preferred outfit was a corporate suit. In the boardrooms a suit felt quite normal, like useful armour.

But when I later hopped off the bus outside my local bar in Bondi, I felt like a conspicuous alien, an overdressed dork. I would keep my eyes down and scamper home quickly to change back into something more casual before showing my face on the street again.

And have you ever returned from a Pacific island holiday where you've been jollied into wearing one of those native-print shirts that APEC leaders don for their photo-op? It can seem like a good idea at the time.

Then, two drinks into the flight back, you look down at what you're wearing and wonder how on earth you're kitted out in this crazy clobber and can't wait to chuck it.

Save it for Bondi. It may just cut a dash, as long as it doesn't look too new.