“I know I look good in it,” Morten Langhoff said of his Prohibition-era ensemble. But as he and his partner, Hannes Allin, made their way to a vintage-dress party at the Flatiron bar in Copenhagen, Langhoff hastened to clarify that the clothes were only clothes. Wearing vintage clothes in Denmark can be a sign of one’s right-wing politics, he said, but for him, dressing up was an inclusionary practice: “I’m trying to make it nonpolitical.”
It was an early Friday evening in August when I spotted the couple walking together, holding hands in complementary fedoras and long coats. Langhoff wore a natural linen suit and striped linen shirt that reminded me of Argentina’s national soccer jersey, while Allin opted for trousers and a bright white shirt with a patterned navy ascot. Langhoff, 36, works as a gardener but spends much of his time participating in World War II re-enactments of Danish resistance against Nazi Germany. An ex-girlfriend who was into 1920s fashion introduced him to the world of classic dress.
Coincidentally, his style is what caught Allin’s eye. “We only met, like, a little bit over a month ago, but I saw you in this and you looked so cool in it,” said Allin, 27, who is transgender and studies design. He added that it was his first time wearing this kind of outfit outside, and he was amazed at the reactions they got in the short time they had been walking. “It feels like you get more respect from people for some reason,” he said. “It’s so powerful. But also — I feel a bit ridiculous in the hat because I haven’t gotten used to wearing it yet. But I think it will grow on me.”
Langhoff said that he usually kept it simple in the summer with a pair of jeans and occasionally a T-shirt, reserving his most elaborate fits for weekends. “This is more for socializing with friends,” he said.
Allin, on the other hand, preferred workout shorts with oversize sweaters: the “usual trans-dude” stuff, he said.
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