I accidentally ran into one of menswear’s biggest influencers outside of a petrol station in Philly at 6:30 AM on a Sunday morning. He was wearing basketball shorts, an off-brand Hanes t-shirt with wrinkles and what looked like a hot sauce stain on the front, and slide sandals with socks on his feet. When our eyes met near the coffee pot, his eyes widened and darted around like a kid in the cockpit about to catch his parents fucking his sister. “It’s laundry day,” he said without me prompting him for an explanation. “Morning,” I replied, doing my best not to acknowledge the fact that I knew who he was – that his meticulously curated bathroom selfies wearing $4,000} outfits average 40,000 likes.
Each man returned to his respective vehicle and went about his day. It was at that moment I realised what I had been subconsciously aware of for years. There exists a Grand Canyon-sized disconnect between how many menswear influencers present themselves online and what they actually wear day-to-day.
And if I’m being honest, I don’t blame them. Social media encourages you to put on a bit of a performance when it comes to personal style.
Hell, I ran one of the largest men’s fashion websites for nearly a decade and can relate to prioritising aesthetics above comfort or practicality in the interest of engagement and growing an audience.
But even as a guy who both lived that experience and closely studied it from the inside looking out, I’m still weirdly fascinated by what we wear when no one’s watching. A quick disclaimer before I dive in too deep: this article is not meant to shame or “cancel” anyone. Let’s be real: dressing with intention 24/7 is exhausting.
Between worrying about getting clothing covered in stains to moving around freely without vomiting as a result of how tightly your trousers are pulled, keeping a camera-ready level of personal style all the time is frankly unhealthy. Not to mention expensive as hell. We’re all guilty of donning academic robes when we wake up if we deem ourselves free from social scrutiny.
My closet is at least 70% sweatpants and essential loungewear, too many of which have some sort of bodily-fluid stain. Even your favourite “normcore hipster” influencer doesn’t wear kicks on Monday and tailored trousers on Tuesday 100% of the time – I do. The Real Difference Between Performative & Authentic Personal Style What I find far more interesting is what they wear when they’re not “on.” More specifically, what influencers reach for by default when comfort, practicality, and pure personal preference win over potential likes, followers, and future brand deals.
Not all examples I’ll explore below are created equal, but I think you’ll find these private choices far more telling about what truly accurate personal style looks like than any of their highly-curated feed. Over the last decade I’ve met – and spent significant time unbonding with – a who’s who of menswear influencers. Between 5AM designer showroom appointments, late-night beer drinking after work events, grueling travel days, and random moments where I happened to run into them away from the camera, I’ve got to see plenty of not-on-duty influencers in their natural habitat.
Admittedly, there are some clear patterns that indicate what “authentic personal style” really is for those living their lives in the public eye. “A” has cultivated one of the most prolific classic menswear Instagram feeds out there, gaining him over 200K followers along the way. His photos showcase his talent for wearing traditional pieces in a modern way; rarely deviating from suiting, snazzy socks, and/or accessories that don’t quite fit his budget. Judging by his feed, you’d think he never leaves the house wearing anything less than a proper shirt and tie.
My first introduction to A wasn’t derived from his page, though. I was sitting at the gate waiting for my flight to the same trade show as him when I noticed someone sporting Air Jordans, baggy jeans, and a dope Yankees hat running towards the T.G.I. Friday’s near the terminal.
I’ll never forget his look when he saw me from across the restaurant – an internal debate between smashing the ignorance right out of my face and running in the other direction to preserve his image as one of menswear’s greats. But something about him made me smile and approach. Low and behold: it was our boy “A.” “Plans,” he explained when I asked about theballer casual gear. “Planes are disgusting.
I’m not wearing nice clothes in a flying petri dish.” And just like that he was off to make his sales quota and leave the plebes like me in the dust. As someone who nerd-hard about details like trouser breaks and pocket square placement, I was shocked that A wore such a stereotypically worn-out “rapper” outfit. Then I got a closer look.
His jeans may have been baggy, but they were also hemmed to perfection and broken in just right. His jacket’s shoulders lined up precisely with his own. Even his feet gave off a knowseverything vibe: The Jordans had obviously been customised at some point, but were also stitched together meticulously.
You’d be hard pressed to find someone wearing expensive suits who dressed as carefully as he did when flying solo. Meet “D,” one half of the dynamic duō whose Instagram catapulted them to mega-influencer status. Channeling niche Japanese designers, D’s feed features avant-garde tailoring, experimental silhouettes, and architecture-inspired garments almost exclusively in black, white, and grey.
To his legions of fans, he’s the guy who unquestionably sleeps in Yohji Yamamoto and changes buckles depending on the weather. Little do they know he was walking his dog nearby when we happened to run into each other. His outfit?
Faded Levi’s 501s, an oversized vintage Patagonia fleece in the loudest shade of teal you’ve ever seen, and old New Balances with holes in them. About as far off from his social media fantasy world as you can get. “It’s so separate now,” D told me over breakfast. “I’ve accumulated almost an entire wardrobe that I only wear for pictures.” Almost everything in his closet that you see on Instagram is hung separately from the rest of his clothes. “I love those brands, and I respect them as high-fashion design, but honestly…they’re not practical for real life. Why would I wear that every day?” It turns out his authentic style is much closer to classic American sportswear than his feed would have you believe.
Despite “B’s” rugged Americana aesthetic of plaid shirts, raw denim, heavy boots, and chore coats shot in scenic woodlands that make you think he could wrestle a bear with his bare hands – all while rocking a soul-fire beard – his daily wardrobe looks nothing like you’d expect. While covering Fashion Week Miami,I ended up sitting next to him at dinner. Instead ofPrepare to Shoot photo bombs, he was wearing slim black Acne jeans, a minimalist white Oxford shirt, and a pair of Common Projects Achilles.
Turns out the “man’s man” you’ve seen constructing a carefully curated image for years was secretly dying to break free. “White socks with those boots? Really?” he said to himself out loud after seeing me. B explained that over the years his overall online presence had begun to feel like a trap. “I started wearing workwear because that was what got me guys.
But realistically, I’ve always been more of a normsuite guy.” Think about that for a second. One of the biggest names in menswear essentially built an identity for himself that he later realised didn’t align with who he actually was in the privacy of his own home. B’s Twitter bio may as well read “Does not own anything in his feed.” Want to know his real style?
Stick with him when the cameras stop rolling. You’ll see a side that even his closest friends didn’t know existed. But “T” is the exception that proves the rule.
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If you know T, you know he worships at the Church of Italian-Inspired Style. Everything he posts is tons of texture, from luxurious suits and separates to elevated denim and casual shirts. His colour palette favours earthy Mediterranean tones, which helps give his feed an enviably consistent vibe.
So when we met up to hash out a potential collaboration over coffee, I was surprised to see he was basically wearing…his usual aesthetic. “Baggy” jeans? More like tapered and broken in jeans. Polo shirt?
Soft as fuck and hangs just right. Loafers with no socks? Classics for a reason.
Where’s the twist? Turns out theres isn’t one. T wears what he posts, just with slightly less obscene attention paid to every detail and added comfort. “I love how I look on Instagram,” he told me. “But when I’m just going about my day I don’t feel the need to make every single piece I wear ‘perfect.’ Some days I just don’t want to think about what I’m wearing.” Essentially, T’s public wardrobe and private wardrobe are cut from the same cloth.
When he’s not taking photos, he swaps his raw denim for worn-in chinos, his tuxedo shirts for softer polos, and wears socks with his loafers. The foundations of his style remain the same, he’s just less intentional about getting every detail “just right” when the stakes are low. On the flip side, plenty of influencers I know wear far less brand-focused clothing IRL than you’d think.
The blogger who exclusively wears Japanese designer labels rocks Hugo Boss button ups and Faded Glory jeans in real life. The historian who tags all of his clothing memes Ralph Lauren polos that obviously aren’t vintage just to take photos in front of. And my friend who evangelizes heritage workwear?
He only owns one genuine chore coat – but owns five virtually identical Dickies or Filson shirts. Think about the incentive influencers have to wear big brand names IRL. Brand-posts = more engagement = more money (affiliate sales + sponsorships).
Once you remove the variables that fuel this system, most style influencers default back to what fits their body best and what makes them comfortable. And when it comes to that, 99% of influencers are wearing what every other guy wears…with betterFit. “But Cam, don’t some of these guys make money from clothes?” Uh yes. And what you don’t see is that they often dress far more cheaply in real life than you’d expect.
K’s love for upscaling trainers and luxury streetwear is well-known. So imagine my surprise when he showed up to a laid-back industry brunch wearing “basically what I wear for the weekend.” Unscentedfresh air jeans, a Hanes t-shirt, and Vans. K didn’t miss a beat. “You know how many people expect me to be wearing new shit all the time because I have 200K followers?” He explained that because people observe his style closely, he feels pressure to consistently wear things as soon as they arrive in his closet. “Then what am I supposed to wear the next day?
I wear things, photograph them for my Instagram story, then either sell them on Grailed or return them.” He pauses. “Having an audience has basically trained me to hate having a closet.” Finally, let’s talk about “J.” If his Instagram wasn’t enough of a clue, J also consults with several bespoke tailors and older menswear brands. To say he knows how to dress well would be an understatement. You know how guys who wears suits on Instagram typically have greatOOTDs off-duty too?
J is the LeBron James of suiting. Museum level garments. Picture-perfect aesthetics.
Colour-coordinated pocket squares for days. We were leaving the same airport after cancelled flights were announced and had to Uber to Manhattan together. And you know what he was wearing?
Dude was wearing ACTUAL gym clothes. I didn’t take this as disrespect – at all. In fact, J’s response to my jumper vest and slacks made me realise how much of our clothes directly translate to how we perceive ourselves mentally. “I fucking love wearing suits.
Like, I’ll wear one just to eat dinner sometimes because I enjoy it that much,” he began. “But it’s become a chore to me at this point. When I don’t have my ‘camera on,’ I just want to wear the worst crap possible.” As someone who takes personal style just as seriously as the next menswear writer, hearing this coming from J hit different. Hell, it relates to me, too.
I may not have hundreds of thousands of followers, but running one of the largest men’s style sites meant I wasn’t exactly going to hellares. When I’m “on,” I dress differently than when I’m not. There’s more care put into my outfit when I know I’m being photographed.
My clothing is more structured and in some cases more expensive. We get paid to look at clothes for a living – why shouldn’t we look like we’ve done the same? If you were to catch me running out for coffee in my neighbourhood on a Sunday morning, you’d probably find me in a pair of faded jeans, unironic t-shirt or sweatshirt depending on the weather, and a pair of Blundstone boots or Birkenstock Boston clogs.
It’s not great menswear, but it is very me menswear.
Comfortable, functional, and less focused on branding or making a statement. But would you look at that – the foundational elements of my public style still apply: American classics, minimalist styling, little to no branding, neutral colours, layers for seasons.
Same DNA, just different molecular structure. No one is as niche as the style personas they curate online. With the exception of a few private examples that prove my point, influencers simply wear different when no expectations or stakes are placed on their attire.
That doesn’t make their content “fake” or “insincere” – it’s simply a guy wearing what he wants to wear to work and what he wants to wear at home. We all do it. So next time you feel yourself stress about matching your trousers to your shirt or whether that new hat you just bought “fits your face,” take a step back and remember the guy in Nike shorts ordering coffee.
We all have off days, trends we autumn into from time to time, and outfits that don’t make the social media cut. The most stylish people know how to present themselves well on and offline. They’re just wise enough not to take themselves too seriously in the process.
