To Cufflink or Not to Cufflink

By a man who’s brushed the dust off corduroy but never clipped gold to his wrist

The French cuff sits folded in the drawer, untouched. Stiff and starched, it waits like a ceremonial drum that’s never been struck. Clean lines. White as a chapel wall. A small stitched slit that calls for something more than a button—something deliberate. Something chosen.

I’ve never worn cufflinks.

Not out of disdain. Not rebellion. But perhaps out of a quiet knowing. In my world—steel lunchboxes, second-hand blazers, church pews that creak under the weight of hard years—cufflinks feel like a foreign dialect. Beautiful, precise, but rarely spoken aloud.

Still, I’ve admired them. Not the ones with logos or novelty shapes. Not the plastic rhinestones or the hollow silver imitations you see piled in thrift store bins. I mean the real ones. Gold, brushed or bright. Onyx set in silver. Mother-of-pearl that looks like the inside of a seashell pulled from a place you’ve never been. They have a heft to them, these tiny anchors of elegance. They fasten more than fabric—they fasten intention to ritual.

They remind me of another time. A grandfather I never knew who wore his best shirts only to weddings and funerals. A photograph in a shoebox—him standing straight in a dark suit, hands clasped. No smile, just posture. Dignity. The kind that doesn’t need to shout. I wonder now if he wore cufflinks. I wonder if, on the day of his daughter’s wedding, he slid them through his sleeves with a tremble and thought, This is what it means to show up right.

But for me, wearing cufflinks would feel like putting on someone else’s voice. Like trying too hard in a room where effort should be invisible. I’ve never wanted to be mistaken for trying to impress. I want to dress like I live—authentic, measured, unforced. Cufflinks, in my world, are not the natural extension of a well-worn routine. They are punctuation in a language I haven’t mastered.

And yet.

I’ve thought about it. Quiet mornings, steaming a shirt until the cotton sings beneath the iron, I’ve imagined sliding a pair of antique links through the cuffs—maybe brass with a bit of patina. Maybe something American-made from the ‘40s. Something that feels like history, not costume. Just once, I think. Just to feel it. Just to know.

There’s something to be said for that—trying on a new rhythm, a new note in the old chord. You don’t have to become someone else to appreciate the weight of ceremony. Maybe cufflinks aren’t about belonging to a certain class or club. Maybe they’re just about honoring the occasion, like a clean shave or a handwritten note.

But they’re not for every moment. You need to know the room. The audience. The expectation. In the wrong setting, they whisper of vanity. In the right one, they nod to respect. That’s the tightrope: understanding whether you’re signaling reverence or shouting for attention.

To everything there is a season—and cufflinks are seasonal not by weather, but by spirit. They’re for the day your son graduates and you want him to see you not as you were at work or behind the mower, but as the man who stood tall when it mattered. They’re for the night you step into an old jazz club in New Orleans, wearing linen and leather, ready to feel every note with your whole chest. They’re for the last dinner with an old friend, when the wine is red, the light is low, and you know this won’t happen again.

They’re not for Tuesdays at the bank. Or for impressing someone on the second floor who wouldn’t know the difference between silk knots and screw-backs if you handed them the pair. Cufflinks aren’t meant to impress. They’re meant to express. And that’s the real question: What do you want to say?

When you know the answer, you’ll know whether to wear them.

I’ve come to believe that style—true style—isn’t about flair. It’s about alignment. The inside matching the outside. The garment, the gesture, the occasion—all playing in tune. You can wear denim and boots and carry the presence of a bishop. You can wear a tux and still look like you’re playing dress-up. Cufflinks are no different. They’re not a shortcut to sophistication. They’re a responsibility.

So for now, mine remain unworn.

But I keep a pair tucked away. Gold ovals. Hefty. Unadorned. Found in a cigar box at a garage sale in western Pennsylvania. The man who sold them said they were his father’s, worn only once—for a retirement party at the steel mill. The box smelled like pipe tobacco and oil. I liked that. I liked the idea of something formal rising out of something rough.

One day, I’ll wear them. Maybe at my son’s wedding. Maybe when I step into a room to speak, and I know the moment has arrived where I must be not just heard, but felt. I’ll slide them into place, feel the cool weight against my wrist, and think—not of status or fashion—but of preparation, of presence, of care.

Until then, I’ll stick with my rolled sleeves and my shoe brush. Leather under palm. Steam rising from linen. The everyday rituals of a man who’s learning, slowly, that sometimes the smallest details hold the most weight.