Originally Published in Print, December 2021
As far back as I remember, I’ve dressed for comfort. Indeed, as a teenager, I would routinely wear my faux-leather school shoes and track pants together. When my family protested, I would reply that it was suitable for every occasion. Smart casual; the shoes were smart and the trousers were casual! This was a joke that I found consistently funny. No one else did. I don’t think that this has changed – my philosophy on dressing for comfort, not the hilarity of the joke – but my style has evolved in a more formal direction. In fact, I found that I have unintentionally developed a sort of uniform: button-up shirt, jeans, knitwear, boots. Like a cartoon character, my everyday wardrobe has become some variation on a singular theme. Even during the summer, the only major change is the lack of knitwear – beyond that, sleeves get shorter, jeans become jorts, and boots become canvas shoes. I have to stress that this style seemed to happen independent of me and I have found myself (now that I have to once again leave the house on a daily basis) taking stock of my wardrobe – not in any “eradicating fast fashion” way or any “time to head to the clothes bank” way – but just asking myself : why am I wearing this? Why has this become my style? Who is this even for?
That last question is one that genuinely keeps me up at night. Who is my appearance for, exactly? It can’t be me; I can’t see myself during most of the day. So, it must be for others, right? This question always rears its head when I am in front of a mirror with a razor in hand. My facial hair grows quickly and I daily have to make the decision whether I’m going to be clean shaven or not. It doesn’t make a practical difference to me. It mostly feels the same. As long as I remember to moisturise, it doesn’t even get itchy at that awkward mid-length. Of all the people I interact with on a daily basis, I am the one who looks at my face the least, so, in a sense, I am the one least impacted by it. I don’t even feel more or less confident with one look rather than the other. Any time I have tried to come up with a rationale for preferring one over the other, the logic feels retrospective and strained. I have grown a beard for people and I have shaved a beard for people (and, indeed, I have done both to spite people too), and none of it particularly bothered me, personally.
My instinct is to say that this is wrong. Surely this is wrong. Our appearance is an extension of ourselves! It is an expression of our selfhood! Is my conception of my own self so fragile that it can be changed on whim to please the people around me? After giving it (too) much thought, I think I’ve realised that there are elements of my appearance that simply don’t impact me, and my beard is one of those. I have been completely clean shaven and had an unruly beard and both feel the same. It’s not that my appearance was dictated by other people, but instead that this element of my appearance did not matter to me, so I was willing to take suggestions from the crowd, as it were. But that is clearly not true of everything.
In August of 2020, I was playing Donkey Kong Country: Tropical Freeze with my brother. After I, once again, wasted all of our lives narrowly missing jumps and running directly into enemies, my brother asked why I sucked at this game, when I am typically mediocre. Leaping to my own defense, I replied, “It’s not my fault this game is so blurry!” The game was not blurry. I needed glasses. As I was trying to pick out frames, none of them worked. They were too boxy, too sleek, too modern. I was getting headaches straining to focus on things at a distance, but I could not bring myself to buy and wear a pair of glasses that didn’t feel right. I couldn’t even explain what was wrong with the pairs of glasses I didn’t buy. If I were solely dressing for comfort, I would have bought the first pair that fit. If I were dressing for others, I would have bought the first pair that my mam insisted looked good. So it’s clear that that is not what’s happening. It was my third visit to the optician when I found the pair that I would wear: they are circular, tortoiseshell, with a small gold-coloured bridge. They fit.
There is something perfect to me about knitwear, hence why over the pandemic I became one of those people who took up knitting. It is a comforting activity that I am terrible at. I have only successfully knitted one scarf which is riddled with holes and is genuinely one thread pull away from total disintegration. Yet it fills me with pure joy when I wear it. It’s too small to properly tie around my neck and so it mostly ends up draped around it, more decorative than anything else. When I wear it, I feel protected, though not from the elements. This rag is mine. Entirely mine. I run my thumb over the stitches and know that each individual one was an active choice I made. I poke my finger through a hole and smile at my little mistakes. Even if it isn’t warm, it is warming. Even if it isn’t comfortable, it’s comforting.
Nothing brings me more joy than a jumper or a cardigan. My outfits are usually planned around which piece of knitwear I am going to wear that day. I have a funky cardigan with multicoloured geometric patterns which I have nicknamed my “party cardy.” This stands in opposition to my more conservative “business” cardigan. I have an oversized jumper that I have nicknamed my “hungover jumper” (for obvious reasons). I have a grey jumper with dark sleeves that is for more formal occasions. All of these have, at various stages, been described stylistically as old man clothes. (They are also all vintage, so it is true on two levels.) In fact, the adjective that is most commonly used to describe my dress sense is geriatric or grandfatherly. When it is described as such, I generally feel a small sense of pride. This is how I have come to understand my style.
I have long had issues with my own masculinity and I am still struggling to articulate exactly how I have never been sporty or confident. In the company of other men, I tend to feel out of place. I have always identified as male, but have never really felt masculine. The only form of masculinity that has ever felt accessible to me is this grandfatherliness. It is a form of masculinity that is comforting and gentle; it is kind and welcoming; it is more concerned with being loving rather than being strong. I think this is why it matters so much what my glasses look like and matters so little what my facial hair looks like. I need my glasses to project this version of myself – no hard edges or modern designs. But with this form of masculinity, whether I am bearded or not doesn’t play into it. Santa Claus is bearded; Charlie Bucket’s grandfather isn’t.
I wish I could say that my fashion was brave or my fashion was out there. I wish I could wear what I wanted and defy expectations. I often see people around the Arts Block wearing gorgeous, striking, bold outfits and feel a sense of admiration towards them. But for me, my wardrobe needs to be a place of stability. It is the part of me that is consistent and reliable. Comforting and warm. Gentle and kind. It is a limited selection of jumpers and cardigans and warm jackets and shirts that to me are subtle variations on that same theme I mentioned earlier. It’s a theme that I love to hear every day and it’s one I love to play for those around me. I dress for myself and I dress for others and I dress for comfort, and I feel incredibly lucky that those three things coincide.
