My Dad Challenged Everything I Thought I Knew About Getting Dressed (And He Was Annoyingly Right)

It started because I was complaining about what my dad was saying about my clothes during dinner at his house last Christmas. Him: Why are you wearing that potato sack? Me: THIS is a potato sack?!

Sidebar: the outfit in question was a vintage blazer I’d thrifted in Capitol Hill several years prior, when the grungy banana bag look was at least kind of in fashion. It had unusual proportions and was DEFINITELY not something you’d find at an office clothing rack. Mum gave him “the look” The Look where you communicate telepathically with your spouse that we have literally spent decades explaining to your son how women’s bodies come in all different shapes and sizes and why she just rolls out of bed like that, and we don’t need to comment on her outfit every.single.time.

She visits? We talk about her outfit?

But before my mum could say anything else, Dad had plunged right in.

He stabbed his fork through a carrot like he was eating it for the first time. “Listen, Sweetie,” he said through a mouthful of roast. “You could totally look like a smart, put-together human without spending hundreds of dollars on….WHAT IS THAT THING ON YOUR BODY?” Ideas formed.

What if I let him pick out my entire outfit for a whole week? Wait.

Let me back up. Dad was essentially wearing the same uniform for the past two decades: straight-leg jeans, flannel shirt, and either work boots or clean white trainers. He thinks jumper prices are obscene if they cost over $30. “Business clothes” for him involves taking the boots off and wearing the white trainers.

He was the perfect style opposite of me. But maybe that was exactly why I should let him pick out my outfits for a week. The next morning, I asked him over breakfast, “Okay Dad.

You think you can do better than me? Let’s find out. One whole week, I let you pick out everything I wear.” He looked up from the newspaper with the LOOK he had saved since I had asked him to please please please organise our garage when I was 12.

The eyes of someone who has been proven 100% right about everything for decades, combined with the excitement of someone who is about to do something fun for the first time in years. “Well,” he said, setting his paper down so that he could fold his arms impressively across his chest. “Finally, someone’s come to their senses.” The rules were simple. My dad would pick out my entire outfit for one week straight. I would wear whatever he picked, no exceptions.

I couldn’t change anything he selected, even if I hated how it looked or it wasn’t appropriate for where I was going. Bonus rules: He had to pick from clothes I already owned – I wasn’t giving my dad my credit card to ruin – and everything had to be versatile enough to wear in Seattle in February (aka rainy season). Day one was a Monday.

A totally average day for me – lunch with a sustainable brand that was looking for press, work at my desk, happy hour with some writer friends. My go-to for a day like that would have probably been high-waisted palazzo trousers, a vintage blouse from Mexico (because I always have to have a story behind my clothing), and some cool earrings or necklaces. Instead, I was wearing straight-leg Levi’s 501 jeans, a plain burgundy wool jumper from Everlane, and my most utilitarian ankle boots.

The ones I wore for hiking and when I needed to dash out to grab the mail. Dad looked me up and down when I was done dressing and nodded with satisfaction. “See?” he said. “Not a bag hanging off your body. You look like an actual person.” Um.

I felt…fine? In my clothes, I guess. It was weird to look in the mirror and just…not scrutinize myself hard.

These were just clothes I was wearing, not pieces of myself expressed through fabric and cuts. The jeans weren’t too loose or too tight. The jumper was flattering.

My boots were comfortable (and, TBH, kind of cute). Everything just FIT. To Dad’s trainers At lunch with the sustainable brand rep, I got several odd looks.

She kept eyeing me up and down, as if trying to decide whether I was making some sort of statement with this “what the hell is wrong with mum?” look I was sporting, or if I’d just given up on life. “You look really…” She paused, searching for the word. “Accessible” today, she finally settled on. Uh, yeah. Thanks.

Day two was almost identical to day one. Black straight-leg jeans this time (because God FORBID there be any pant silhouette other than straight-leg according to Dad), a cashmere jumper in navy I forgot I owned, and the boots from day one. Dad shrugged when I asked him about it. “What works, works.

Why fix it if it’s not broken?” To Dad’s loafers This whole experience was starting to feel…liberating? I wasn’t stressing about whether something was too trendy, not sustainable enough, made my butt look big, matched my hair…anything. My outfits were comfortable all day.

I ran all over Seattle for meetings that day and didn’t have a single instance of “wow, my feet really hurt in these shoes” or “damn it, I have to keep adjusting this bow every five seconds” or “ oh no, my top’s totally see-through if I sit down” like I usually do by the end of Wednesday. Day three was when I knew this whole project was going somewhere. I was having drinks with some publicists and editors that night – exactly the sort of event where EVERYONE is wearing something comment-worthy.

Surely my dad would cave and let me wear something, I don’t know, NORMAL that night? After much deliberation (haha MUM I AM KIDDING YOU SO MUCH DELIBERATED OVER WHAT TO MAKE ME WEAR), Dad handed me a basic black midi dress I bought three years ago and haven’t worn since. “This,” he said firmly. “And put on the low black heels. Not those SPIKEY platforms you idiots buy.

Oh and maybe a necklace but not those tINFOIL things you usually wear.” It was…actually not bad? The dress itself was much cuter than I remembered – nice angles, and it hit perfectly at midi length. My feet actually didn’t hurt in these block heels, so I could stand and converse with people without rocking back and forth on my heels like I was trussed up.

And the solid gold circle necklace he made me wear actually accentuated the dress without distracting from it. I got compliments all night. One editor even asked me where I got the dress – truly expecting me to say something designer-y and expensive that “normal people” would never know.

When I told her it was an old COS find that I hadn’t worn in years, she smiled knowingly. “Must be high-end. It always feels high-end when brands do minimalist stuff like that.” (I sent Dad a picture of her remark, and he responded with a 👍 and “told ya.”) Day four was a Saturday. To Dad, weekends were “business casual enough that you can do anything.” Which, translated, meant: straight-leg jeans AGAIN (the man clearly believes that any other cut of trousers is a conspiracy to make our legs look fat), an old chambray shirt I’ve had since college, and a navy blue blazer.

It was painfully chic in a laid-back French sort of way. Which is something I TOTALLY would have said to Dad if he’d dressed me like that. Anyway, it was the perfect outfit for my Saturday – Farmer’s market in the morning, followed by some thrifting, then coffee with a friend.

It was so easy to move between activities when you’re wearing “dad clothes.” When you’re dressing in something super trendy/specific or really make-a-statement, you’re basically locking yourself into that aesthetic. Can’t wear funky trainers with a fancy blouse, can only wear that cute summer dress to restaurants or events, etc etc. But dad apparel was like the Benz of wardrobe choices – could take you anywhere.

My friend Sarah ; who is also a really stylish person who compliments my outfits 99% of the time – eyeballed me from head-to-toe when I sat down. “THIS is what I’m talking about with your little journey you’re on,” she said. “LOVE.” love it? LOVE the shapeless attire clinging to my body like a potato sack? Day five and Dad really outdid himself.

I was meeting up with some fellow writers for brunch, then heading to the art museum for a new exhibit in the afternoon. He chose a forest green midi skirt I forgot I had tucked away in my closet, a cream-coloured silk blouse, and (you guessed it) the same black ankle boots I’ve worn nonstop for the past four days. It was so…together?

Nothing screamed “look at me!” or “look at this fabric!” but it all worked well together and was appropriate for both casual and “nicer” outings. The colours complemented each other well, and everything fit like it was supposed to. I realised that my outfits at home usually try to do something fun with at least one element of the outfit – weird jacket, cool trousers, whatever.

But then because I’m striving for THAT piece to look awesome, I’ll compromise on the shirt not fitting properly, or the trousers cut almost being right but not quite, or the jacket makes my shoulders look fat. Dad’s outfits never did that. Monday rolled around (day six) and brought with it a meeting with a photographer and stylist about a future editorial shoot.

This is prime “everybody wearing weird crap they got in the mail” territory. Fashion people love to show each other what they’ve been sent. It’s like when kids bring home their report cards and slam them on the dinner table for their parents to brag about.

Except instead of report cards, we trade fabric swatches and octopus socks. He sent me off in wide-legged black trousers (FINALLY, some variation on trousers! ), a black turtleneck, and black loafers. It was, dare I say it, flattering?

Like I could have walked out of a Calvin Klein-commercial-in-the-1990s kinda outfit. “All black, huh?” I joked. Dad shrugged. “You always ragging on NYFW and how everyone dresses. Might as well embrace it.” The stylist complimented my “uniform” multiple times throughout our meeting and stared at me like she wished she’d thought of dressing like that herself (“Very editorial,” she said. “Love this cleanse-break you’re going for.” If she only knew that my “editorial brand cleanse” was actually my dad convincing me that style bloggers wear ridiculous outfits to avoid being too closet basic.) Day six was a blur of oatmeal coloured jumpers and button-down shirts, but by day seven, I honestly wasn’t sure how I felt about going back to my normal wardrobe.

On the one hand, I was excited to have my clothes back. To pour myself another cup of coffee over what I was going to wear that day. To put on fun earrings and twirl around in dresses that made my legs look long.

To feel LIKE MYSELF again. But on the other hand… I spent all week getting compliments (hi Dad), feeling comfortable no matter where I went, and NEVER once scrambling at the last minute to change because my outfit wasn’t working for the day. Something about knowing that whatever my dad picked would be versatile enough to take me from errands to a bar helped me stop worrying about my outfits so much.

For the last day of “being dad’s little mannequin,” he repeated the winning formula: A flattering pair of jeans, white button-down shirt, and navy cardigan. Simple leather loafers rounded out the outfit. It was French woman-themed wardrobe but done in such a way that I’m pretty sure Nicole Kidman dresses like dad wears her everyday.

Over dinner that night I quizzed him on his strategy. Did he actually know The Dress Code Like I thought he did nothing but watch soap operas and live off of senior discount coupons? “No,” he said, stabbing his fork through a piece of broccoli. “But if it fits you well, isn’t distracting, and can go with everything else in your closet? That’s all clothes should do.” WHAT Okay, maybe I won’t switch to dad-approved clothing forever.

And obviously I’m still gonna buy all the clothes, all the time.

It’s how I express creativity and individuality, and goodness knows I’d be terrible at my job if I only wore basic tees and jeans.

But taking a week-long break from over-thinking every little detail of my outfits was kind of refreshing.

A reminder that wearing clothes you already own in outfits that actually work for your life is one of the most sustainable things you can do. Before you go out and buy the next cool vintage shirt your favourite instagram boutique just got in, ask yourself: can you wear that with more than one pair of trousers? Will it actually fit in your closet?

Or will it just end up wasted, like the rest of your good intentions. The next day I took Dad shopping. I wanted to see what he’d pick if he could browse in actual stores versus just rifling through my closet.

We went to Nordstrom – partially to torture him with prices and partially so I could take advantage of their return policy if he bought me yet another sweatshirt. He wandered around for nearly twenty minutes looking vaguely lost before pausing in front of a rack of cashmere jumpers in different colours. “These,” he muttered, running his hand down the sleeve of a charcoal grey jumper, “are worth the money. Good material, classic cut, it’ll last.” He glanced at the price tag and grumbled. “Bet it better last until I’m buried in that price.” I bought him the grey jumper as a thank-you for agreeing to dress me for a week.

He protested that it was ridiculous to spend that much on one jumper and then promptly wore it to dinner that night, stroking it proudly. “Nice colour on you, Dad,” I remarked. He smoothed his hands down the front of it ceremoniously. “You have to mind the details,” he said. “That’s what I’ve been trying to teach you.”