Look, let’s lay my prejudice on the table right up front – I started this project with a heavy chip on my shoulder. For years, I’ve made my living writing about menswear style, educating men on how to dress better. The more into proper tailoring you get, the more specialties there are to geek out on.
What’s the difference between half- and full- canvas? Prussian blue vs Oxford cloth sack? Why does your shirt need to be longer than you think it should?
Many folks I talk to don’t care about these answers – and some never will – but you know what? They wear clothes differently because of what I’ve taught them.
I can be arrogant about it.
Because… well, I’m just that guy. But my friend James – who writes about fashion from a completely different perspective than me – lobbed a grenade into that mindset over drinks one night. “Throw on some crap from Walmart for a whole week,” he challenged me. “See if that suit picking expertise matters when no one knows where your clothes are from.” We were at our regular lunch hang out – the pub with the downstairs patio near James’ office that knows how to make me a proper Manhattan – and scrolling through some troll level fashion Instagram bullshit (@tryfashions, I’m looking at you) when he turned to me seriously, phone screen glaring into his eyes. “Arthur,” he said, “wear Walmart clothes for a week. See if it fucks up your life.” I chuckled.
Needed to. The guy who spent an entire dinner party monologuing on why Italian-imported, Japanese-denim jeans cut with a traditional indigo weld are superior to the FUCKING ENGLISH shoulder because American manufacturing has SUCH ROUGH WORKER’S RIGHTS!!!!!!!!!! standards was going to Walmart? Me, who sends my shirts out for dry cleaning every time they’re worn and owns suits older than some of my interns?
Never. “Hell no,” I told him. “Plus, nothing would fit me right.” That’s when James got that gleam in his eye that means he’s convinced himself he’s made a truly good point. “That’s why you should do it. We both know you can find clothes at Walmart that fit okay. But nobody expects those clothes to look good.
Especially if you wear them all together.” Two days later, I was caged by monochromatic lighting and prison-industrial-complex-yellow shelves at my local Walmart Supercenter about 20 minutes outside of downtown. An actual child was shrieking in the shirt aisles. Everything smelled like slightly-diluted chemicals that were trying way too hard to smell like clothes.
And there I was, paralysed by rows upon rows of poorly-made mystery-brand clothing items that cost more or less the same as they probably should. I’d laid out some ground rules to give this experiment legs. The only place I could buy clothes from was Walmart.
Shoes and accessories could be from anywhere, but every article of clothing had to come from inside those boring-ass warehouse walls. I had to have enough shirts, jeans, shorts, and whatever else I needed for a full week of work clothes and weekend wear. I set a budget of $200.
Which I quickly realised was probably too much spending money since some of their dress shirts don’t even cost that much. Finally: I wasn’t allowed to tell anyone where I got my clothes from. I would wear them to work, the bar, dinners out.
Any place I normally wore nice clothes and see what happened. SHOCK NUMBER ONE: Walmart does not organise their clothing section in any rational way. Dress shirts are right next to graphic tees.
Cotton underwear shares a wall with socks. And their denim selection is sorted by brand – not waist size or fit. I had no idea where to start.
Shock number two: holy shit there are some actually-okay clothes in there. OK, fine – there are tons of plain white and black t-shirts and uninspired denim that’s almost aggressively mediocre. But dig through that $15-$30 price range, and there’s actually some stuff you could wear in public without getting judged too harshly.
Like that chore jacket I mentioned. It’s not designer denim jacket quality, but the fit and silhouette are actually quite nice. There are jumpers that don’t obviously look like rubbish from afar.
Button downs that at least know what a collar is supposed to look like. I started grabbing shirts, trousers, jackets. Two pairs of jeans, two pairs of chinos, four or five shirts and jumpers, the chore jacket. $172.43, altogether.
And that’s more than I spend on some of my ties. Literally more than I spend getting my suits pressed. Back home, I laid all my new Walmart clothes out on my bed to examine them further.
Under my bedroom’s harsh fluorescent lighting, the differences between my usual brands and what I found at Walmart were night and day. Fabrics felt thinner, weaves were looser, stitching was amateurish. Everything just felt… cheap.
Literally and figuratively. And yet. When I held each garment up from across the room, those details vanished.
Only when I got arm’s length away did I start noticing things like thinner sleeves or wonkier collar proportions. It occurred to me that maybe my entire Walmart week would come down to styling. If I put together outfits that worked well and felt good on me, perhaps nobody would notice – or care – the clothes weren’t top shelf.
Monday morning came with all the mental preparation of a trip to the dentist. I went with a pretty simple, pared-back outfit to keep my options open: dark Walmart jeans ($16.98) from their George brand, light blue button-up “semi-spread” collar that was trying hard to be an oxford shirt ($12.98), and navy cotton jumper layered over it ($13.96). Paired with my trusty real leather shoes and belt (this WILL NOT DOCTOR), and I was out the door.
Walking into work that morning felt like flashing someone. I constantly found myself distracted by my outfit – how thinner shirt felt in my hands, how my collar proportions felt slightly off, how my jumper was already getting stretched out at the cuffs. But nobody seemed to notice, or care.
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And then something happened that made me question everything I thought I knew about men’s style. During Monday’s editorial meeting, Sarah from our digital content team – who doesn’t look at me like a human being more than five days a year – stopped me as I was walking by to compliment my outfit. “That blue really pops for you,” she said. “Did you get that jumper new?” I laughed incoherently and somehow managed to exit the room while experiencing a full-on existential crisis. Honestly, making it through Monday without somebody at work ridiculing my outfit blindly gave me confidence.
On Tuesday, I wore the chore jacket ($26.96) over a simple crewneck white t-shirt ($5.98 for a 2-pack). Tucked into those khaki chinos ($17.98) from hell. When I stopped by the local cafe where I go to write most mornings/afternoons, Tony (who makes my peppermint mocha exactly how I like it and doesn’t cheque social security numbers twice) looked me up and down and said, “Dressy as fuck today, counselor.
You got a big meeting?” I relayed the situation to James over our Tuesday cheque-in lunch and he legitimately laughed so hard he had to put the phone down from elbowing his lunch partner. Wednesday came and went with similarly convincing results. My clothes were noticeably lower quality than what I normally wear, but they didn’t look bad.
Stylized correctly – and worn without apology – they were being worn just as well as my more expensive clothes. No one seemed to notice or care what brand was stitched onto the tag. Some things from Walmart – ahem, the khakis – actually fit BETTER than my non-Walmart clothes off the rack.
They were looser in the thighs and waist where I needed them to be, but still fitted nicely through the hips and seat. That chore jacket was actually getting a nice worn-in look after only being worn twice and paired well with everything I threw on it. Sure, the quality was lower.
But I could easily style these things to pass as “normal” clothes if I tried. Thursday was the first day I felt actually pulled for work. I had a midday client meeting I normally would’ve worn one of my nicer sport coats to.
Walmart, of course, sells jackets. But I didn’t want to look embarrassingly cheap up close when someone happened to glance down at my chest. My solution?
Dress “as if I have a jacket on, but don’t.” I threw on those navy chinos again, my white button down, and one of those “merino blend” ($16.98) charcoal v-neck jumpers. No jacket. Despite putting together easily the nicest outfit of the week to date, not a single person at work mentioned it.
Same thing happened when I met with the client – who was very complementary about how I always dressed appropriately for meetings. I almost had to pause the conversation to freak out in the bathroom alone. Fast forward to Friday.
I was no longer embarrassed by my outfits. I was… liberating myself, I guess would be the best way to describe it. Jeans, my favourite blue Walmart navy polo from their “performance” line ($11.98), chore jacket.
I felt nice. Nothing looked bad. When Greg – midphone conversation while simultaneously scarfing down his lunch – asked me where that jacket was from, I almost confessed the whole thing.
Instead, I told him I’d “just picked it up somewhere.” This magical experiment of ours even made it into Saturday. Jeans and cream cotton jumper ($18.94) that, yes – does have elbow patches on them. Synthetic.
But hey, they add an air of professor that I can get behind. My buddy Marcus – who name drops PR people like most guys say “hello” – commented on how nice the jumper was. “Nice texture,” he said when I confirmed I had in fact bought it recently. “J. Crew?” I legitimately spit out my Pinot.
Sunday was my final day, so I kept it casual wearing Walmart’s light wash jeans, a henley from their “performance” line ($9.98), and, of course, that miracle-working chore jacket. A woman at the farmer’s market stopped me to ask where I got that jacket. “Online,” I said quickly and hightailed it out of there. But damn if wearing all cheap clothes for a week didn’t teach me something about my ego.
First lesson: Walmart clothes don’t hold up. My jeans un-panted themselves by Wednesday. The cotton t-shirts started thinning out under my bag strap.
All the jumpers were aggressively pilling under the arms after a few days. I fully expected these clothes to last me longer than a week. They didn’t.
What else? Clothes don’t have to be expensive to look good – if you wear them right. Obviously I’m not trading my vintage Wannabes and J.
Sheds for clothes from Walmart. This stuff ain’t built to last.
Dry cleaning cheaper clothes more often isn’t exactly the best for our planet, either.
Not to mention how empty my wallet would feel if I was truly putting together outfits exclusively from Walmart. There’s still an incredibly noticeable difference when you hold a $20 jumper up next to a $200 cashmere number no one. But man.
If I wore that jumper from Walmart as confidently as I do my grandfather’s Aran knits from Ireland that no one else can afford? No one would know. I just didn’t realise how little normal people notice and care about what brand of clothing you wear until I tried it myself.
The day after my Walmart week ended, I put on one of my favourite outfits: Japanese selvedge denim, Italian-made cotton oxford, English lambswool jumper. All blue and cream – colours that compliment each other so well. Literally the nicest thing in my closet I could throw on together.
Cost me about 10x what I spent on Walmart clothes for the entire week. Not a single person said anything.
