“You can’t wear that.” Four words that instantly zapped me back to being fourteen and attempting to leave the house looking decidedly dreamy for the school disco. Only this time I wasn’t fourteen. I was thirty-nine.
Standing in the front room of my parents’ house in Manchester while my dad looked up and down at me with judging eyes that could kill small animals. 
“What’s wrong with it?” I enquired, staring down at my navy knitted polo, Japanese selvedge denim and (objectively) extremely handsome pair of Belgian loafers. Dad snorted. Literally snorted. “My son,” he replied, “You look like you’re trying too hard.” Sage advice from a dad in that tone of voice you know absolutely nobody is coming between you and. “All that cash you chuck at your wardrobe and you still look like you’re playing dress-ups.” Then, the coup de grâce: “Let me get you sorted for the week.
Real clothes. Man’s clothes.” And so it was that I – a full-time professional style writer who is paid large amounts of money to wax lyrical about men’s clothing – allowed myself to be talked into letting my father from Stockport clothes me for an entire week.
Yes, that father.
The man who thinks that “smart casual” means a shirt with proper buttons and some shoes that aren’t flip flops. My dad who, to this day, believes that wearing a tie means he is wearing a suit. 
Including, heaven forbid, clothes that he picked out for me to wear to a meeting with the editor of GQ. For context, my dad has been an accountant for forty years.
He has approximately three metres worth of suits hanging up in his wardrobe. Two of them are for smart occasions (“funeral and weddings, James.”), the other is the suit he wore for his job interview. He owns five shirts; all white or blue.
His entire jumper collection would break up most monogamous relationships. But he does own a pair of shoes that are older than me. Shoes he still wears today, takes to the cobbler twice a year for “maintenance,” and lovingly refers to as “my brogues.” So when he said he was going to sort me out for the week I, half in disbelief, half knowing my father as well as I do, mentally accepted that I was going to be letting him pick out some serious geriatric rarities from the Jurassic known-as ‘his wardrobe.’ 
Day one started with Dad handing me over my first outfit of the week: a pair of dark Levi’s 501s, a white shirt, a navy lambswool V-neck jumper and his aforementioned beloved brogues.
To top it all off he added his Barbour waxed jacket. “This is how a man dresses” he said, pointing at me as if I was some kind of exhibition piece. 
Everything was obviously old. The jeans were bootcut. They were bigger around my legs than I’d worn in years.
The jumper was at least two sizes larger than I’d normally wear. But it was M&S’s finest wool, dammit. As my mum hugged me goodbye and told me I looked “dead smart” and “very sensible” I started to panic slightly.
I was meeting a PR contact for breakfast at Café Personal in the Northern Quarter. Ellie – who is used to seeing me wear literally anything from archival Japanese designers to dusty old Americana – raised an eyebrow as I sat down across from her. “Wow,” she said, leaning forwards conspiratorially, “you look…” She paused for a dramatic effect I wasn’t quite getting. “Practical!” 
And she wasn’t wrong. I looked… functional.
Like I could skin a deer, dress it, then toddle into town for a pint without anybody batting an eyelid. The jeans were so baggy I could’ve had another belly like John typewriter in there. Still, I loved the Barbour.
It was the kind of thing I’d Instagram holy shit articles about. Probably wearing them with jacked skinny jeans and a washed out tee. Dad’s philosophy on clothes is everything I usually love inverted.
Where I have grown convinced that men’s style needs to have some kind of statement piece – be it an unusual fabric, a print, a jacket with three sleeves tied together – every single item he picked was resolutely normal. Workwear. Practical.
Designed with one purpose in mind; to not look out of place. Which is how he reacted when I told him Ellie’s thoughts on my outfit. “Oh,” he said, clearly proud of himself. “That’s what everyone’s aiming for these days then; practical.” That was the mantra for the week. Practical.
Which led to some really interesting outfits. Day two’s selections were greys porterchecked button-down shirt “from Charles Tyrwhitt. I bought them in the sale; four shirts for £100.
Absolute bargain.” Dark green cord trousers and, of course, the brown brogues. Outer layer this time was Dad’s waxed cotton Harrington. “Bought this when you were about five. Still absolute bugger all today.” “The cheque shirt adds personality,” he explained solemnly when I arrived home that evening from a day of writing followed by drinks with mates. “But not too crazy. You never go mad with cheque.” Jamie text me at the pub when I was twenty minutes late to cheque if I was actually going to turn up. “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK ARE YOU WEARING?” were the first words out of his mouth when I sat down. “You look like your Uncle Nev at a fucking christening.”
“It’s an experiment.” I replied through a pint of Stella that was hastily summoned over. “My Dad’s deciding what I wear for a week.” “Ah,” he said, nodding knowingly. “Got it.
He’s transforming you into some sort of normcore hipster.” Except it hadn’t felt like that. It honestly felt nice not stressing about what I was wearing. Those Levi’s moved like they were made of liquid compared to my normal Japanese selvedge skinny jeans.
The Harrington, stereotypegate aside, was absolutely ideal for Manchester’s rain. I didn’t feel uncomfortable, I just felt…. Normal.
My comfort zone is clothes with so much personality that they practically talk to you. That wear such odd fabrics they make you do a double-take. Tailored whenever possible.
Lots of patterns, especially now we’re coming into Summer. Dad’s style was 180 degrees away from that. Texturally boring.
Colour palette of a stripped criminal. 
But it worked. By day three I’d actually started to wonder what he’d come up with. Answer: oatmeal lambswool jumper (“Not beige.
Oatmeal.”), Levi’s 501s (yes, again) and, drum roll please…. Desert boots. “Don’t think I’m stuck in the past eh lad?” he crowed, clearly delighted by his own iconoclasm. They were my desert boots.
I’d bought them for him at some point three birthdays ago and he’d worn them exactly twice. “Saving them for best,” he said, nonplussed by my accusation. “Today’s good enough for these.” Day three was another busy day of meetings so I had to wear one of Dad’s shirts to prove myself professionally credible. We were meeting a designer about a potential collab and I wanted to impress. Instead I looked like the sort of person who dresses like that to help his old dad move house.
The designer raised an eyebrow as he shook my hand. He was a proper cutting edge sort who usually wears multiple layers of geometric black shapes. And all I could think of was how much he looked like my dad. “Are you feeling ok?” he asked concerned. “Did something happen?” “It’s an experiment.” I explained.
He laughed so hard I almost spilled his wine. “Honestly Dad, that’s normcore taken to neurotic levels. It’s actually refreshing to see someone wearing normcore that actually knows what the fuck they’re doing.” To be fair, my dad definitely doesn’t give a shit about normcore. He just wore what he wanted to wear.
And it got me thinking; was there something I could learn from old boys that ditched their fashion tendrils thirty years ago? The thing was, every item he picked was immaculately made. Work-wear.
Clothes built to last. Not worried about being trendy. Just not trying to send messages. 
Day four was, you’ve guessed it, more Dad classics: navy denim shirt “one of them thick ones, not them flimsy ones,” dark jeans and a tweed sports jacket that, had he added Ray-Bans would’ve stopped me in my tracks. “That’s actually quite fashionable,” I squeaked. “I’m not wearing fashionable clothes you Titbert,” he bellowed at me over the washing machine. “I’m wearing classic clothes.
That’s different.” Turns out that tweed jacket was older than me. Bought in 1982 from a tailor’s shop in Manchester city centre. It’s so worn in, so loved and patch repaired it actually looks like something your new favourite heritage brand would’ve spent millions trying to replicate.
Not that he cares. Same goes for the denim shirt. Probably also from 1982.
Probably Levi’s. Dad doesn’t do trendy. And yet, it all kinda worked. 
It’s spot on.” I told him it was my dad’s from the early eighties and he shook his head knowingly. “Son, that’s a real piece of history right there. You couldn’t pay me enough to buy a jacket like that.” Day five’s look was almost literally mind-blowing. Black jeans.
Plain black t- shirt. Cherry red Dr Martens that, inexplicably, I own. But the kicker; black leather jacket. 
“Dad?” I enquired, staring at him blankly. “You own a leather jacket?” He looked guilty all of a sudden. “Your mum bought it for my birthday back in ’78,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Used to wear that to the pub with me friends.” I spent hours that night scrolling through vintage jacket websites selling Tony’s original ranch jackets for thousands.
Dad just shrugged and muttered about “best days of my life.” I bloody love that jacket. Proper genuine leather that’s actually been worn. Not like those ridiculously expensive bullshit ones I’ve dropped serious cash on over the years only to sell on when the style moves on.
Mum popped her head round the door and smiled. “That’s the one he wore when I met him.” She said. “Thought he was mad fit.” I ended up going on a dinner date with an ex-girlfriend I’m still really happy with Sophie. She did a double take when I arrived through the door. “Jesus Christ,” she said, eyes wide. “You actually look hot. Like, you could walk down the street hot.
Not in a fashionable way; actually hot.” I still have no idea what she meant by that but I got more compliments on that leather jacket than anything I’ve worn in the last six months. When she asked where it was from I told her it belonged to my dad and he’d worn it when he was young. Her whole demeanor softened. “Oh that’s lovely.” She said. “Better than those weird Japanese military jackets you’re always shelling out rent on.” Weekend called for casual wear and Dad defaulted to what he called “jobs about the house clothes”: faded blue M&S sweatshirt (“all bright colours run in the wash”), cargos (“loads of pockets”) and desert boots.
For Sunday he picked out chinos, polo shirt and what he called a “smart quarter zip” lightweight jumper. One that “doesn’t look stupid but isn’t too sack like for Sunday lunch.” It was like a window into an alternate universe where I’d never discovered fashion. To know how good Dad’s clothes looked, to feel exactly nothing whilst staring into a mirror filled with clothes I loved.
After years of agonising over every outfit I put together it was refreshing….to not give a shit. 
On the final day of the experiment Dad dug out what he deemed his “best.” Clothes for when he’s “got somewhere smart to go.” A navy blazer. (“Anderson & Sheppard off of Savile row” I deadpanned, not that he heard me.) Grey flannel trousers, pale blue button-down shirt and brown suede loafers. “That’s actually really nice.” I said, examining the fit and tailoring of his jacket in the mirror. “Where did you get that from?” “It’s my fathers,” he replied proudly. “Got it altered to fit me back in ’95.” He was right too.
That blazer probably cost more than my entire wardrobe. 
He got me dressed, saw me off at the train station and asked me what I’d learnt. I spent the entire train journey home thinking about it. “I realised that clothes don’t have to be overthought.” I told him over the phone that evening.
He nodded at the other end like he knew I’d come to that conclusion all along. “You’ll notice nowt looks smart,” he said quietly. “There’s clothes to keep you warm and clothes to stop you getting pinncered for trouserlessness. That’s about it really.” Except wait. “But quality,” he smiled, clearly spotting the hesitation in my voice and enjoying sticking two fingers up at his old man slightly smarter clothes. “Now there’s nothing wrong with quality.” The week after wearing my dad’s clothes I went to London for fashion week. A street style photographer stopped me on the street outside the venue.
I was wearing 501s (albeit slim fit this time), a white Oxford shirt and my trusty navy jumper. Dad’s uniform. But with fifty percent better fashion credits. “Nice look mate.” He said, snapping away happily. “Very authentic normcore.” I almost told him it wasn’t normcore.
It was just normal. But then I thought of Dad and smiled. “Cheers.” I said. “My dad’s been dressing me this week. He has very strong opinions about quality basics.” He snapped a few more pictures and wandered off looking for the next unsuspecting nobody with decent taste.
I sent Dad a snap of my outfit when I got back to London. “Jumper looks a bit thin lad.” He replied, two hours later. “You’ll catch your death.” Some things never change.
