A Sartorial Satire Fashion Revolution in Parallel Muscovy

Upon witnessing this timeline’s Muscovy, I found myself navigating a veritable theater of the absurd. One would imagine that the opulent courts of 17th-century Russia held their fair share of dramatic attire, yet nothing could have prepared me for what I encountered today—a sartorial satire played out across every street in Moscow. Entirely serious faces paired with entirely laughable embellishments made for an unintentional comedy of manners.

It appears that the Muscovites here have collectively embraced a most peculiar fashion decree. Headscarves, once a symbol of propriety, have found a new home laced tightly around boots. It creates the illusion that every step is accompanied by the gentle sway of silk, not entirely unlike a calculated bow with every stride. These soulful appendages bestowed upon shoes are now the yardstick of social standing. The most sublimely absurd aspect remains the brocaded turbans delicately wrapped upon shoetops—a true testament to a shoemaker's or milliner’s craft, or perhaps their inside joke.

As if the surreal footwear weren't enough, the second notable fashion bloom presents itself at the knees, where starched collars have taken residence. These collars—once proudly perched around lofty necks—now flank the Muscovite patellas like curious maritime ruffs riding waves of fabric. The intricate lace and patterns form personal banners, each a declaration of the wearer’s taste, wealth, or perhaps an inordinate amount of free time.

In conversation with a young boy who sat earnestly threading beads into a knee ruff, I discovered that these circles of fabric also doubled as familial crests. "This one," he pointed out proudly as though sharing the secret of some magical emblem, "has my father's favorite hunting dog on it. Mama sewed it."

Yet even amid the eccentricity, utility finds a friend in irony. Tailors—now artists on a new canvas—have flourished as their services for ruff customization climb dizzying heights. It makes me wonder if Marie Antoinette’s eventual coiffure excesses find their genesis or inspiration from such fineries as the ankle ruff or heel turban. A closet fit for a Muscovite noble must resemble an apothecary’s notebook more than a walk-in wardrobe.

Even more amusingly, counterparts in this society subtly deem social rank by the ease with which one navigates the veritable obstacle courses that their attire creates. Seeing a nobleman nearly topple while attempting to nod politely was itself a dance as delicately rehearsed as any ballet. I, too, found myself precariously dodging a sudden slip by focusing my balance toward knotting wire-bound frills into some semblance of dignity.

In this festival of elaborate clothing customs, one must appreciate the dedication needed to commit to this daily attire cosplay. It is, I reckon, a true test of one’s mettle to bend an entire culture’s fashion to an epic joke upon itself and maintain gravitas whilst doing so. It’s hard not to see the humor in a knee-collar formally blessing the air as its owner genuflects in greeting.

Reflecting over this, I am almost grateful when I return to my lodgings, barely noticed in my lack of frippery. The room is small, the furniture simple—a weak contrast to the ceremonious fabric fantasies outside. The maid who tidies these quarters, intrigued by my inquiries into the local fashion, kindly left a small gift upon my pillow: a modest, lace-hemmed headscarf for my boots tomorrow. Practical and considerate—qualities I can appreciate from any timeline.

A different sort of adventure confronts me next; my task is balancing a dinner platter on these ruffed-out knees without mishap. There lies a mission for tomorrow.