Cover up or show off?

Jack Straw’s recent pronouncements on modesty show how divisive dress codes and clothing can be — but how exotic, really, IS the niqab?

Cover-up? Or show-off? Sometimes I think the female universe is divided into two distinct types, and that dressing is like driving.

So, do you dress defensively or offensively? Are you protecting yourself in that outfit or making a bold statement? Perhaps both, but how can you be sure people will understand your motives when you get dressed in the morning? And do you really want them to?

Some of us dress to impress, to reveal or flaunt what we’ve got — beauty, curves, youth, affluence. Still others seek to understate, downplaying the flesh beneath our clothes and the price of our accessories — a subtle display of modesty which can be seen as a sign of status. To what extent is this a conscious choice or a function of upbringing and personality?

Shyness, courage, pride, ambition can all play a role in how you dress. And so do ingrained beliefs, even if you’re not religious. Our modern sumptuary laws are based on some curious new taboos and tribal affinities (which perhaps aren’t as new as they seem).

At the most obvious level, clans have evolved around designers or brands both haute and pop. Most of us know that Chanel and Gap are as different as the Vatican is from a Protestant chapel — just as we know why the micromini’s not the niqab.

But there’s more to it than that.

Remember when logo-covered handbags were a new epidemic? Initials seemed to be spreading, like a measles rash, from one brand to the next — even Coach got in on the act. Strangely enough, I found myself craving one of those shiny Vuitton backpacks yet lacking the courage to sport a handbag’s worth of immodest Ls and Vs. Though it would be fun to own one, I fear being labeled a “logo slut” more than I fear other slurs.

Faithful to my litter of demure Bottega Venetas, I still gaze at those unapologetic Vuitton logos with longing when I pass the display case at Bloomingdale’s. But I doubt I’ll ever shed this taboo because, deep down, I believe it’s more virtuous not to display a designer’s initials.

To satisfy my inner bimbo, I sprang for a bright red Ferragamo cellphone holder which I sometimes carry in a plain brown (paper) Bloomie’s shopping bag, along with my New York Times and a bottle of water. Covert logo-worship, a bit like crypto-Catholicism a few centuries ago, protects me from being marginalized and keeps my exterior reputation intact.

How much easier life would be if I just got over my superstitious ideas about logos. But it wouldn’t, because that would mean changing who I am. Or who I think I am.

When I heard about Jack Straw pronouncing on the niqab, I thought immediately of the time and energy I devote to my hair. I don’t worship any version of the god associated with the big three monotheisms, but I do worship at the altar of perfect hair. Getting my hair done is not just a practical decision: A salon blow-out makes me feel blessed and protected — from what, I’m not sure. Misfortune, evil and a form of vague, undefined damnation, perhaps.

Scary, huh?

It would be arrogant to deny that there’s something arbitrary, fanatical, irrational — even clannish — going on here. When my hair is due for a blow out, I make sure to cover up with a scarf, hood or cap — which makes me feel protected (though not yet blessed). If I were deprived of my head-covering at such times, I would feel robbed, exposed and very cross. If anyone made a point of lecturing me about how I don’t need to live like this, forget it, I would tune them out entirely. (In fact, I frequently tune out people who offer advice about my hair — but not my hairdresser, of course. He has more power over his followers than some medieval priests did, I’m convinced of it.)

Women who don’t care about having their hair done are like members of another faith. Of course, I preach tolerance and even practice it, but I sometimes think the world would make more sense if everyone else would simply convert — preferably by attending the salon I go to.

Fortunately, there’s no crusade for me to join. And no government minister or politician is trying to zero in on all the mental baggage that surrounds my sectarian fashion decisions. (Who would care? You can’t get voters wound up over stuff like this.) And I manage to make these decisions without drawing attention to myself because my concerns aren’t exotic. They don’t mark me as foreign or different. They’re considered normal. I know because, at the salon where I perform my ritual, there are always others like me, doing exactly the same thing.

In my corner of New York, women who cannot live without “the weekly blow-out” constitute a small disorganized sect. We recognize each other on sight. It might surprise Jack Straw to hear that an opposing sect exists — women who explicitly reject the blow-out. They disapprove of the “helmet” so many of us aspire to and don’t seem to need its protection. Well, it certainly surprised ME when I first heard this, but I can assure you, it’s true. (A Brooklyn writer I know, Amy Sohn, has explored these tribal tensions in her second novel, My Old Man.)

Fashion is chronically politicized and often policed, sometimes by civilians and sometimes by the state. If you want to give people a hard time for how they dress, there are candidates everywhere: The matron in her fur coat; the teenager in his hoodie; the prostitute accused (under a new French law) of “passive solicitation” because of her skirt.

And these are just modern examples. Let’s talk about yesterday’s dress code battles tomorrow!