A particular friend of mine once dated a gentleman who owned precisely two pairs of underwear. Yes, two. As you might guess, they were kept immaculately clean: one pair worn, one pair folded to origami-like perfection, waiting its turn. Dressing, for him, was a ritual—something akin to brewing a perfect espresso or pausing for evening prayers.
One pair was a deep navy; the other, a crisp grey. Both were made in Portugal.
When his unwavering loyalty to these two humble pairs came up over dinner one night, he simply shrugged and said, deadpan: “Better to go commando than to compromise.”
At the time, I found it delightfully eccentric. Now I realize—it wasn’t about brand loyalty. It was philosophy.
“Better to go commando than to compromise.”
My friend’s relationship with this minimalist Casanova ended before the brand he loved moved production out of Europe. I’ve since heard that he still refuses to compromise. Some vows, it seems, are sacred.
It’s embarrassingly easy today to be completely ignorant of where our clothes come from. Click here. Three for ten. Delivered tomorrow. Made somewhere. By someone. Somehow. Thank you.
I’m asking seriously:
Why aren’t we more curious?
Maybe it’s because we tell ourselves it’s just underwear.
Underwear isn’t trendy. It doesn’t advertise itself. It’s not a status symbol. It’s invisible. Meaningless. Isn’t it?
And yet, every day we make choices that nobody sees. When no one is looking, we can do anything - and pretend otherwise later. Still, just because no one is asking, doesn’t mean the origin of our underwear is irrelevant.
Not for nationalistic reasons. I’m not talking about flags, borders, or slogans stitched into seams. I’m talking about geography as fingerprint. You can feel it—the weave of the fabric, the (clean) scent of the material, the invisible history of how it came into being.
Europe’s manufacturing, particularly in textiles, has largely migrated eastwar - to where labor is cheaper, scrutiny softer, and the messy map of geopolitics easier to ignore if you squint hard enough. When price and profit margins dominate the conversation, it's dangerously convenient to look away.
Europe isn’t perfect. Let’s not canonize it. But, particularly in Portugal - the tradition of textile craftsmanship is different. Traceability. Transparency. Working conditions that don’t require anyone to avert their gaze. It is what it says it is.
And in a world that feels increasingly unstable, the idea of a global supply chain can sound less like progress and more like an existential threat. Nearness feels safe. Tangible. Knowable.
Where it’s made. Who made it. Why it matters.
I’ve noticed the shift in conversation lately. Friends who once swore brand allegiance without a second thought are now - gently, curiously - searching for alternatives. Not out of rage, but out of a hunger for authenticity: They want to know what a company says about itself, and whether the reality matches the rhetoric. Where it’s made. Who made it. Why it matters.
It matters not for moral superiority, but for emotional security. It’s not about guilt. We’ve all bought the three-for-ten special without blinking.
But maybe it doesn’t always have to be that way. Maybe even underwear deserves more than “good enough to survive a month.”
Ask yourself:
Where do your current undergarments come from?
Do you know the factory?
Do you know the intentions of the people behind the brand?
Are you told how many hands - and whose - have touched the fabrics before they touched your skin?
If you answered no, maybe this is a good moment to ask yourself why.
And whether it matters.
Or not.
The answer belongs only to you.
Just you - and the choices you make when no one else is looking.
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