I was hanging out at my parents’ dining room table last Christmas when my dad started in on me about what I was wearing. Much like a broken record, he liked to comment on my style every time I visited him and my mom in Portland. This particular day, I’d driven up wearing an oversized blazer I’d thrifted at a secondhand shop in Capitol Hill.
The blazer had unique details and wasn’t your typical office-appropriate jacket. In his drunken wisdom, my dad looked it over and said, “What you call a dress shirt these days? Looks like somebody sewed up a potato sack.” My mom rolled her eyes.
You know the look they give you when they want you to know that they’ve already told your father we don’t need to critique our daughter’s outfit every time she visits? My dad just chuckled. “I’m just saying,” he said as he stabbed a piece of roast with his fork. “You could look plenty good without spending a ton of money on—— heck, I don’t even know what that is.
Give me fifty bucks at Target and I’ll buy you some clothes that look like actual clothes.” And just like that, my brain shifted into freelance-editor mode. “You want to know what, Dad?” I said. “Let’s find out.” My father had been, shall we say, out of the fashion loop for awhile.
He’d worn slim-cut jeans for the past two decades, believes that cashmere shouldn’t cost more than $30 a sweater, and gets fancier than changing out of his work boots when he puts on clean sneakers. But maybe that was the point. Maybe giving my incredibly unfashion-conscious dad free rein on what I wore would be the best experiment to see if/style influences beauty/editorial/etc. “I’ll pick out your clothes for an entire week,” I told him the next morning over coffee. “Seven days.
Seven outfits. I’ll wear whatever you want me to wear.” He looked up from the newspaper with that face I haven’t seen since I asked him if I could rearrange the garage when I was twelve. The mixture of excited-I-can-prove-I’m-right jitterbugs your heart does when it thinks it found sunlight. “Sonofabitch,” he said. “About time somebody agreed with me.” The rules of our game were simple: my dad would pick out my entire outfit each day for one full week.
I would wear whatever he chose—no matter what activity I was doing that day or who I was seeing—and make no alterations to my outfits. He was only allowed to pick from my current closet/freebies pile/backup storage at my mom’s house. I wasn’t giving my father my credit card and sending him on a shopping spree.
Also, everything had to be relatively Seattle weather-appropriate. As anyone who lives in the rainy-city knows, that basically means rain. My dad started off day one by handing me some straight-leg Levi’s 501 jeans, an Everlane burgundy wool sweater, and my most sensible pair of ankle boots.
You know, the ones I reserve for hikes or when I need to run errands. He looked down at my ensemble with pride before patting me on the shoulder. “There,” he said. “Now you look like a human being instead of a gorilla in a dress.” I’ll admit, looking in the mirror that morning was surreal. I looked normal.
In those jeans, sweater, and boots, I looked like every other put-together woman in Seattle—but not stylishly put-together. Just put-together. The pieces were uncomplicated, they fit well, and they allowed me to move freely.
It was a bizarre feeling. After breezing through my morning work meeting with a sustainable clothing brand (they were flying by to pick up some PR work I’d pitched them), I spent the rest of day one running around town to meet with other writers, deadlines, and errands. Normally these kinds of days would leave me with at least two fashion regrets: blistering heels, annoyed thighs where my pants didn’t quite reach, or jewelry I had to keep tweaking throughout the day.
But wearing my dad’s steamily casually chosen outfit left me feeling … nothing. There was no devastation. My feet still felt like feet, my clothes still felt like new.
It was wonderful! Day two, he repeated the process: black straight-leg jeans (mom jeans, but not mom jeans?? ), a navy cashmere sweater I didn’t even realize I owned, and the same boots. When I questioned his “strategy,” he shrugged and said, “What works, works.
Why fix something that isn’t broken?” After day two of wearing incredibly comfortable, flattering clothing purchased from actual retail establishments that didn’t send any sort of message but simply existed as….clothes, I was hooked. I loved that my outfits no longer caused me angst. I wasn’t fretting over sending the wrong message with my clothes or whether my pieces were sustainable enough or current enough.
All my outfits did was exist—and they existed quite well, actually! Day three called for another deliciously basic outfit: boot-cut jeans (BREAKTHROUGH! ), a soft blue blouse, and yet another pair of boots. Since I was having dinner with some industry friends that night, surely my dad would finally cave and let me wear something … trendier? cutting edge? less universally-lovable?
He rifled through my closet for what felt like hours before finally settling on a basic black midi dress I purchased years ago and hardly ever wear. “This one,” he said gruffly. “And put on the low black heels. Not those funky boots you normally wear.” Bonus points when he grabbed a thin gold necklace from my jewelry tray instead of letting me wear any of my bigger, dressier pieces. The dress was—— Okay, fine.
It was actually a pretty great dress. It flowed nicely on my body, hit at the perfect spot on my leg, and those boots he insisted I swap out were WAY too comfortable. To my astonishment, I got multiple compliments at dinner, including one editor who leaned over to me and whispered, “Where’d you get that dress?
It looks expensive but I’ve never seen it anywhere.” When I told my dad this at dinner (he was busy texting my mom about what a good dresser I was), he laughed and replied with a thumbs up emoji followed by “toldya.” Saturday rolled around and my dad informed me that “casual” meant straight-leg jeans yet again, a classic striped shirt, and his new favorite: a navy blazer. He’s watched enough CNBC over dinner to pretend he knows French women live in these kinds of outfits, but I didn’t correct him. Between running to the farmers market, thrift shopping, and meeting up with friends for coffee, his perfect vision of Saturday wardrobe had me jumping around Seattle.
It was the gift that keeps on giving: I could dress it up or down depending on where I was going. When you wear something trendy or a super-specific look, it kind of locks you into that vibe. But basic clothes can take you anywhere.
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My stylish friend Sarah commented throughout the day how cute my “what-I-actually-wear” phase was. She went as far to text me “mom jeans are LIFE CHANGINGggg” after I showed her the outfit via FaceTime while getting my oil changed. Sarah has stellar taste.
If anyone could pull off extravagant, full-look jeans, it would be her. She loved my outfits so much I think she was afraid to tell me the truth: my dad was out styling me. But day five….DAY FIVE WAS perfection.
We were meeting up with a group of other writers for brunch before I had to run to the art museum for an event later that day. Normally this would be my opportunity to say something clever with my outfit choice. You know, wear something cool or maybe extra trendy just to show off at our weekly brunch get-together.
Instead, my dad chose a forest green midi skirt I forgot I had, cream silk blouse, and—— you guessed it——the boots. It was the type of outfit that looked chic without trying too hard, made me feel great, and worked for both brunch and a slightly more elevated setting later that day. My clothes weren’t fighting with each other.
I realized a lot of my outfits do that. They almost work! But something is slightly too short or off with the proportions.
Or the colors are close but not exact. Sometimes I pick full looks that feel great and look amazing in my closet but don’t help me with my daily activities. Monday rolled around and we were headed into the final stretch.
For our finale, my dad chose wide-leg black trousers (he FINALLY abandoned his strict denim allegiance), a black turtle-neck, and lo and behold…black loafers. All. Black.
Everything. “I see you’ve gone all Suicide Blonde on me,” I joked. He scoffed. “Suicide blonde thinks New York fashion people dress like freaks. Thought you might as well fit in.” My meeting with a photographer and stylist about a project we’re working on went off without a hitch.
Between running around Seattle for the week trying not to reveal that my dad picked out my entire outfit, I’d gotten used to being stylishly stealth. Nobody at the office even blinked an eye when I waltzed in wearing all black. The stylist complimented me THREE times (“Very clean.
Kind of love this palate cleanser vibe you’re going for.”) before we parted ways. Little did she know that my cleanse consisted of my pragmatic dad hating everything I owned. When I got home Sunday night, I felt torn.
Sure, I loved being back in clothes I felt good about and getting to wear my new purchases. But something about wearing safe, complementary clothing that got me through my week sounded…..liberating? Easy?
He pulled out his old standbys: an excellent pair of jeans, a crisp white button-up shirt, and his favorite: a navy blue cardigan. Simple leather loafers completed the outfit. Mother fucking French women, am I right?
As I ate dinner with my parents that night (salmon niçoise thank you very much), I asked him what his secret was. Did he peruse Vogue each day for styling tips? Did he just go off of instinct? “No fashion magazine tells me what to wear or when to wear it,” he scoffed as he reached for more salad. “I just picked stuff that looked good on you, went with everything else, and most importantly didn’t look like it was trying too hard.
Clothes should accent you, not make people look at your stupid clothes instead of you.” Deep. Right? So no, I won’t be banishing all of my creative outfits and making my wardrobe состоит из нижнего белья and button-ups (althoughooo those outfits are A-OK in my book).
I like being expressive through my clothes too much, and frankly I’d be useless at my job if I only wore basics.
But Dad does have a point. Wearing clothes that make me feel good—regardless if they’re from Target or Theory—is important.
Maybe I don’t need to wear all the clothes I own in one week to remember that, but it was a nice reminder that buying less and wearing more is the best place to start when it comes to building a more sustainable wardrobe. Also? I took my dad shopping the next day.
Because only a boss would let their father pick out their ENTIRE wardrobe for a week. We ended up at Nordstrom because 1.) I was curious to see how he’d do shopping in REAL stores vs just my old clothes and 2.) Nordstrom has a great return policy if his selections were abysmal. We wandered around for twenty minutes before my dad promptly stopped in front of a display of cashmere sweaters. “Now,” he said grabbing the sleeve of a charcoal grey option. “These are sweaters that are worth the money.
Feel how soft they are. They’ll last you years.” He stared at the price tag like it was written in another language. “Well obviously they’d better last you a few years at that price point.” I purchased him the grey sweater as a thank you for “styling” me all week. He refused at first, telling me it was ridiculous to spend that kind of money on a sweater before leaving the store wearing it like a proud papa. “I look great in grey, don’t I Daugh?” he said adjusting his sweater as we walked to dinner. “I look great in any shirt my dad decides not to rip,” I joked.
He paused, looked me over, and said, “Presentation matters,” he muttered as we continued our walk. “That’s what I’ve been trying to teach you.”
