Uniform Dressing

Whatever you call it, wearing the same thing every day takes commitment.

In the last month or so, I’ve worn the same grey sweater four out of seven days a week. I feel increasingly self-satisfied about it. When I received my second ever Rent the Runway box last month, I was delighted to find that the heavy wool trousers I’d selected from Ralph Lauren (brown, houndstooth) fit me perfectly. I’ve worn these pants four days out of five, and this morning I learned that they look just fine with my trusty grey sweater. I can see myself wearing this outfit, or some minor variation on it, every day until I am forced to return the pants to their warehouse.

I feel unfussy and cool in this outfit. I can wear it with a heeled boot or a sneaker, depending on which side of formal I need to land on. Add jewels, a coat, purposeful but understated makeup to adjust the message, adjust the vibe. It’s chic! At least to me. I think we are able to recognize outfit repeating as chic the older we get. 

The self-imposed uniform says “I know, I see, and honestly? I’m all set.” Granted, it’s only deemed chic if it fits right, looks clean, looks expensive. It helps if the wearer is young, or beautiful, or otherwise well maintained. But a great uniform takes the idea of a signature piece to the next level. It suggests the wearer has some secret knowledge that you, lowly onlooker, are missing. A uniform implies wisdom and seriousness. A uniform implies being above the frivolities of fashion.

Lately, my outfit repeating doesn’t make me feel above fashion, just a little apart from it. As I take time away from my career cleaning out closets and filling them back up, my new uniform feels like a reassuring nod from future me to present me. A reminder that I have more to offer than my image and that my image could even be irrelevant to my work one day. 

Repetition changes an outfit’s meaning. At first, you experience simple infatuation, falling in love with the details you only notice through prolonged wear. Next, you beg the question, don’t you even like the rest of your clothes? To which you might say, sure, but… Eventually, wearing anything novel feels like a radical departure from your new identity as a Uniform Person. Right now, I feel rebellious in my uniform. Day three, four, five, the same outfit, updated only by a choice accessory. By day six, my glee has grown enough to start bragging about the existence of a uniform. By day eight, I am insufferable.

Up until recently, I’d felt pressure from people who don’t know me on the internet to be an original and creative dresser. It’s an outlet for your self-expression! I told myself, practice your creativity! But how exhausting, holding myself to this standard of constant output. No one expects me to show out in new looks. I don’t have internet followers to gas me up or get me brand deals or gifted products to supplement my wardrobe. No one expects an artist to churn out a new painting every other day. And let’s be clear: I’m no artist. But even if I were, I’m the only one who thinks a new outfit will prove something to the people who don’t know me on the internet. 

As part of my personal little rebellion, I haven’t shopped that much lately. I have my aforementioned grey sweater (Uniqlo). A pair of black derbies and velvet loafers I snagged at a sample sale (The Row). It feels refreshing to slow down and get a little more rooted in my look. Though I do wonder how I’ll feel writing about shopping and style while I’m on this new pace of consumption.

How do you think Fran would feel if she knew she was in the same roundup as Lizzie McGuire?

Having a uniform is cozy. No one gets to know your music taste, or your favorite color, or your complexities. A uniform provides what is sorely lacking in most of our lives: privacy. This world can be cruel and its judgment swift. With a uniform, there isn’t any opportunity for the public to get distracted from what you want them to know about you.¹ What do you want them to know about you? It could be nothing: fuck ‘em! On the other hand, you could want them to know your politics or your business or your ideas. If the world judges your uniform harshly at first, so be it. Only so many papers get sold on the same story. So if you’re in the paper, it’s for what you want to be recognized for. Eventually, if you’re smart and lucky, the same people that condemned your uniform come around to it. The world catches up to you. From being the butt of an SNL joke to chic, to iconic. To becoming a shorthand for whatever you stand for. The repetition changes the meaning. If you repeat yourself enough, your uniform becomes the symbol others use to say that they stand with your ideas.

So you protect yourself, then make a name for yourself. We do have a weird fascination with the uniformed. Come to think of it, the most notable uniforms are often literal protective shields. Take André Leon Talley. The man wore capes for crying out loud. Turned himself into a superhero. Who could mock him? Who would dare? Anna Wintour’s sunglasses, an introvert’s dream accessory. Steve Jobs’ sensible, soft turtlenecks and jeans which, who knows, maybe reminded him of simpler times. Hugh Hefner in his bathrobes. Never not cozy, never not at home. He became a perpetual host, always welcoming you into his house.

It’s notable that society reveres the figures who commit to the bit, as it were. But it’s genius: a private, true self shielded behind a mask that absolves them of ever having to stay up to date with a trend, ever having to make a statement. With this understanding, it’s surprising that we idolize these wearers as somehow more knowing than ourselves. In fact, they may simply fear (or more generously, not want to spend their emotional energy) misstepping in front of a public that keeps them in power through misty-eyed reverence. Because more often than not, what replaces that misty reverence is fire and brimstone. Pitchfork mobs and cruel insults. Who the hell needs that? Not me. Probably not Anna either.

In conclusion: I’m finally starting to understand the value and the fun of a self-imposed uniform. It functions as a privacy shield, a comfort blanket, and a badge of anti-consumerist honor. I’m enjoying discovering what ideas I have when I commit to one look, and I’m excited to see what nuances develop as the seasons change. Who knows though, maybe I’ll be sick of it by next month. I’ll report back when I finally deviate.

1.  Maybe this is why all the White Male Creative Directors at Kering are all very boring and, dare I say, bad dressers.