Prince George in dungarees: why his retro style rules
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Version 0 of 1. Once upon a time, the whim of the royal family had the power to dictate the religion of commoners on pain of death. Thankfully, the modern royal family wields its influence in more benign ways: a swell in the popularity of baby names, the popularity of a certain LK Bennett wedge – and now, a trend for dungarees. Prince George has established himself as a thoroughly modern public figure by his impressive grasp of the need for clear, consistent visual messaging. Polo shirts and Peter Pan collars, traditional cardigans, romper suits and dungarees, frill-edged socks and leather T-bar shoes: one may be only one, but one is never off-brand. Never a plain T-shirt where you could rock a collared shirt. No to comic slogans or cartoon dinosaurs, yes to a smocked sailing-boat motif. Like the royal family's other shrewd style icon – his great-grandmother, the Queen – George knows that a recognisable silhouette and colour palette are key to a potent image. Where the Queen wears solid blocks of iced-gem pastels and tops a neat, boxy silhouette with a hat, her great-grandson sticks to the neutral, tasteful tones you might find in a seaside boutique hotel – off-white, cream and grey accented with navy and brick red – and never misses an opportunity to wear the short dungarees or romper suits that best flatter his perfectly butterball physique. Prince George's influence over the childrenswear industry borders on the surreal. When he wore a pair of Early Days "Alex" pre-walker leather shoes on his royal tour of Australia and New Zealand, the online boutique Childrensalon.com sold out within 24 hours; three months later it is still enjoying an 87% sales hike. George's choice of overalls and cardigans for his Australia and New Zealand appearances were arguably the most high-profile tour wardrobe since Lady Gaga's Monster Ball tour: the Rachel Riley romper he wore for a meet-and-greet with New Zealand babies sold out immediately, despite a £75 price tag. The denim striped Petit Bateau dungarees he wore to the Natural History Museum for his first birthday portrait were an immediate sell-out, and are probably fetching a tidy profit on eBay by now. What George has done is not to innovate, but to propel into the mainstream a look that has been popular among early adopters for a decade. The high-street childrenswear shops have until recently been full of mini-me versions of teenaged clothes: band-slogan T-shirts and distressed jeans, glittery leggings and brightly coloured sweatshirts. But among the style cognoscenti, an alternative, more traditional and nostalgic aesthetic has long reigned supreme. Bonpoint, the Parisian label that sells smocked, Liberty-print dresses for girls and understated knits and shorts for boys, has for years been the blue-chip gift to come bearing at a baby shower. (Kate Moss's bridesmaids all wore Bonpoint.) Chloé's delicate, vintage-style frocks in shades of peach, cream and rose have been seen on Harper Beckham. The aspirational aesthetic for childrenswear has become a sweeter, more old-fashioned look. Dressing your kid as a "mini-me" is so 90s; the noughties have been all about dressing him or her as a junior minor European royal, with velvet sashes and piped trims on everything. The look had begun to filter into the mainstream before Gorgeous George: Boden childrenswear has segued from bright primary shades towards a more subtle, sepia, Insta-filtered look, and Marks & Spencer have followed suit. Jools Oliver's Little Bird range, a favourite among budget-conscious but lifestyle-aspirational mums, currently includes a Bonpoint-esque pointelle sweater with scalloped collar for £12. The difference made by George has been – alongside his global fame, and royal status – that he has created a template for dressing up little boys, who until recently tended to be an afterthought in an industry dominated by the adorableness of tiny dresses. It is puzzling that as a society we mock the Cameron-and-Johnson Bullingdon Club photos as being an embarrassing throwback, but have begun to hold up a Sloane Ranger-esque aesthetic as aspirational for our toddlers. (Prince George's own style icon is, quite clearly, his own father at his age. The collars-and-dungarees look is pure mid-80s Kensington Gardens.) But poshness is perhaps less the point here than nostalgia, and a yearning to keep childhood hermetically sealed from the frenetic pace of modern life, in handstitched ribbons and buttoned-up leather shoes. If the 90s mini-me was a reflection of that era's narcissism and hedonism with child dressed as ego-extension, the George-era-toddler represents a celebration of every child as a little prince around whom their parents' life revolves. Such is the fate of a modern would-be monarch: Prince George is one of us. |