Let’s get something straight: I’m a black clothing person. Not exclusively—I’m not one of those fashion editors who looks like they’re perpetually en route to a Chelsea gallery opening or a Berlin techno club—but my wardrobe is definitely anchored by an extensive collection of black jeans, black t-shirts, black sweaters, and black boots in various states of deliberately cultivated distress. My aesthetic, if I had to name it, falls somewhere between “off-duty fashion person” and “former art school student who still has opinions about The Clash.” Lots of vintage denim, slouchy sweaters, ankle boots, and leather jackets. Comfort is non-negotiable, silhouettes are relaxed but not sloppy, and accessories are minimal but deliberately chosen.
It’s not groundbreaking, but it’s mine.
Or at least I thought it was mine until my friend Emma looked at me over drinks last month and said, “Do you ever wonder if you actually like your clothes, or if you’ve just worn the same style for so long that you’ve convinced yourself it’s who you are?”
I nearly choked on my Old Fashioned. “Excuse me?”
“I’m just saying,” she continued, swirling her ridiculous blue cocktail, “you’ve dressed basically the same way since college. Have you ever tried anything completely different? How do you know this is really your style and not just… fashion inertia?”
Fashion inertia. The phrase burrowed into my brain like one of those earworms you can’t shake. I wanted to be offended—after all, I’m someone who literally gets paid to have opinions about clothes—but the uncomfortable truth was that Emma might be onto something. When was the last time I’d genuinely experimented with my look? Not just trying a slightly different silhouette of jeans or a marginally more oversized sweater, but a complete departure from my sartorial comfort zone?
I couldn’t remember. And for someone whose career is built on analyzing style, that felt like a problem.
Which is how I found myself agreeing to a ridiculous challenge: one week of dressing in the complete opposite of my usual style. Seven days of rejecting everything familiar about my fashion choices and embracing—well, whatever exists on the far side of my personal taste spectrum.
“You need rules,” insisted Emma, who was way too excited about this experiment. “Otherwise you’ll just end up in slightly different black clothes.”
She was right, so we established some guidelines:
1. No black allowed. Not even as an accent.
2. No denim (goodbye, security blanket).
3. No flat shoes (my feet already hurt thinking about this).
4. Nothing slouchy, oversized, or remotely “cool-girl casual.”
5. Minimum of two visibly trendy items per outfit that I would normally mock.
6. Full hair and makeup daily (unlike my usual approach of “Is this mascara still good from last month?”).
Horrified but committed, I recruited Emma and our friend Jade to help me assemble a temporary wardrobe. We decided that the polar opposite of my aesthetic would be what we scientifically termed “Extra Feminine Corporate Influencer”—a look characterized by bodycon silhouettes, pastel colors, matching sets, statement accessories, elaborate manicures, and heels you could weaponize in an emergency.
“You’re going to look amazing,” Jade assured me as we checked out with a truly obscene amount of clothing from stores I normally wouldn’t even enter. “Either that or completely ridiculous. Either way, great content.”
At least my existential crisis would be entertaining.
DAY ONE: THE PINK SUIT
I stood in front of my mirror on Monday morning feeling like I was in one of those dreams where you suddenly realize you’ve been walking around naked all day. Except instead of naked, I was wearing a bubblegum pink skirt suit with padded shoulders that would make Joan Collins proud, paired with cream colored pointy-toe heels and a truly insane amount of gold jewelry.
“This is… not me,” I told my reflection, who seemed equally alarmed.
But that was the whole point, wasn’t it? To see what happened when I abandoned “me” and tried on a completely different identity? With one final look of betrayal at my rack of comfortable black clothing, I grabbed my new structured handbag (with a prominent designer logo, something I’d normally rather die than carry) and headed for the office.
The reactions were immediate and intense.
“OH MY GOD.” This from my assistant Jade, who literally dropped her coffee cup when I walked in, necessitating an awkward cleanup while balanced on my stupid pointy heels.
“Harper? Is that… are you feeling okay?” My editor James, genuinely concerned that I might be having some sort of breakdown.
“You look like Elle Woods if she shopped at Zara!” This from the beauty editor, who I’m pretty sure intended it as a compliment but I took as confirmation that I looked as ridiculous as I felt.
The day was a study in physical discomfort and psychological confusion. The skirt kept riding up whenever I sat down. The jacket was constricting in ways my oversized blazers never are. The heels—dear god, the heels. By noon I was walking like a newborn giraffe, and by 3 PM I was seriously contemplating crawling to my next meeting to give my screaming feet a break.
But the strangest part wasn’t the physical discomfort—it was how differently people treated me. The security guard who normally barely grunts in my direction gave me a big smile and held the door. Three separate strangers complimented my outfit in the coffee shop at lunch. A PR person who’s always been slightly dismissive suddenly seemed to take me more seriously during a preview, carefully explaining the collection like I might actually matter.
Was I commanding more respect because I looked more conventionally “put together”? Or was I just so visibly out of my comfort zone that people felt compelled to be nice to me, like you’d encourage a child trying something new and potentially embarrassing?
By the time I got home and kicked off those torture devices masquerading as shoes, I was physically exhausted but mentally buzzing. I felt like I’d spent the day in costume for a character I hadn’t fully fleshed out yet. It wasn’t necessarily bad—just profoundly strange.
DAY TWO: ATHLEISURE QUEEN
“I can’t do another day in heels,” I texted Emma that night. “My feet are literally bleeding.”
“Fine, we’ll modify slightly,” she responded. “Tomorrow is Athleisure Day.”
And so Tuesday found me in skin-tight lavender leggings, a matching sports bra, an oversized designer sweatshirt (left artfully half-tucked), chunky white sneakers that cost more than my monthly grocery budget, and the kind of sleek ponytail that suggests you might be heading to Pilates but definitely not actually sweating during it.
This was the opposite of my look in a different way—where my normal style is practical but not performance-oriented, this outfit was theoretically athletic but designed never to encounter actual exercise. It was for being seen, not for doing.
The physical relief of wearing sneakers was immediate, even if they were bulkier than anything I’d normally choose. But the psychological discomfort of wearing skintight leggings as actual pants was intense. I kept tugging at the waistband, convinced they were sliding down even though they were practically suctioned to my body.
“You look like you’re about to record a workout video for Instagram,” said my friend Marcus when I met him for lunch. “Are those… matching? On purpose?”
They were indeed matching on purpose, and the intentional coordination felt foreign to my mix-and-match sensibilities. So did the numerous logos prominently displayed across my body, advertising my participation in a brand ecosystem I normally avoid.
The weirdest part of Day Two was feeling simultaneously more exposed (thanks, leggings that hide literally nothing) and more anonymous. I was dressed almost identically to dozens of other women I passed on the street—a cookie-cutter version of contemporary casual style that paradoxically made me blend in completely.
No one at the office knew quite what to make of it. “Is this for a story?” asked James hopefully, clearly still concerned about my mental state. “Or a… midlife crisis?”
“I’m 32,” I reminded him. “A bit early for midlife.”
“Tell that to your outfit,” he muttered, walking away before I could defend my temporary athleisure persona.
DAY THREE: CORPORATE BOSS BABE
The phrase “corporate boss babe” makes me want to remove my own skin, but it was exactly the aesthetic I was channeling on Wednesday in a cream sheath dress, structured blazer with (god help me) motivational phrases embroidered on the lining, nude patent pumps, and pearl stud earrings. My hair was blown out sleek and straight, and I’d applied a full face of “natural look” makeup that took 45 minutes and eight products to achieve.
This was boardroom-by-way-of-Instagram style, the kind of outfit that says “I have a business degree and a five-year plan.” It was clean, appropriate, conventionally flattering, and made me feel like I was in disguise as a woman who might un-ironically use phrases like “lean in” and “girl boss.”
It was also, unexpectedly, powerful. When I walked into an important marketing meeting that afternoon, I felt a shift in how I was perceived. People made more eye contact. My ideas received less immediate pushback. The client directed questions to me first, rather than to James.
Was it the outfit? The confidence it forced me to project? Or just the fact that I looked like the kind of person who might be in charge of things?
“You look like you’re about to sell me a very expensive face cream while talking about your manifestation practice,” said our photo editor when she passed me in the hallway. It wasn’t entirely a compliment, but it wasn’t entirely an insult either.
That night, taking off the constrictive dress and wiping away the layers of makeup, I felt conflicted. I hated how long it had taken to get ready, hated how carefully I’d had to sit to avoid creasing the dress, hated the performance of conventional femininity it required. But I couldn’t deny that it had changed how I moved through the world that day—and how the world had moved around me.
DAY FOUR: MAXIMALIST PATTERN EXPLOSION
By Thursday, I was emotionally exhausted from the constant performance but determined to push through. Emma had decided that this day would be dedicated to everything my minimalist soul typically rejects: clashing patterns, bright colors, oversized costume jewelry, and what she called “statement everything.”
The result was an outfit that could generously be described as “a lot”: a floral midi-skirt in at least six different colors, a contrasting striped blouse, a bright yellow cropped cardigan, enormous acrylic earrings shaped like fruit, multiple cocktail rings, and metallic platform sandals. My typical jewelry consists of the same three delicate gold pieces I never remove; that day I was wearing what felt like several pounds of accessories.
“You look like a beautiful tropical bird,” said the intern when I stepped off the elevator. “Or maybe a really nice couch from Anthropologie?”
Neither comparison was particularly flattering, but I understood the impulse to describe me as an object rather than a person. I didn’t feel like myself—I felt like a walking collection of items competing for attention.
Yet as the day progressed, something unexpected happened: I started having fun with it. There was a certain freedom in being so aggressively visible, in abandoning the careful curation of cool that usually dictates my choices. The outfit was objectively ridiculous, but it was also joyful in its excess. I caught myself smiling at my reflection in a bathroom mirror, amused by the sheer audacity of all those competing patterns.
A strange thing happens when you wear something truly attention-grabbing: some people are drawn to you like moths to a flame, while others give you a wide berth. My usual anonymity was gone, replaced by an unasked-for spotlight that followed me through the day. Strangers commented on my outfit in elevators. A barista gave me a free coffee because she “liked my vibe.” A grumpy security guard who’d never once spoken to me in two years of regular contact suddenly wanted to discuss the weather.
It was exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure—the unrelenting visibility a stark contrast to my usual ability to blend with fellow all-black-wearing New Yorkers.
By the evening, though, I felt like I was coming down from some kind of adrenaline high. The constant social interaction, the awareness of taking up visual space, the physical sensation of all those accessories—it was overwhelming. I practically tore off the outfit when I got home, relieving myself of its weight both literal and figurative.
DAY FIVE: HYPERFEMININE VINTAGE
For Friday, Jade insisted that I explore another foreign aesthetic: hyperfeminine vintage-inspired fashion. Think full skirts, nipped waists, carefully set hair, red lipstick that requires constant maintenance, and the kind of deliberate elegance that’s beautiful to look at but restricts your movement in subtle ways.
The outfit they assembled was objectively gorgeous: a 1950s-inspired mint green dress with a full skirt and petticoat, white gloves (yes, actual gloves), kitten-heeled slingbacks, and a tiny structured handbag that couldn’t fit more than a credit card and a single tube of lipstick.
Getting dressed was a production that made me deeply aware of how much convenience I’d sacrificed for aesthetic. The petticoat created a perfect silhouette but made sitting in a cab nearly impossible. The gloves were elegant but rendered my phone unusable without removing them. The handbag meant I had to carry a separate tote for my actual belongings.
“You look like you should be having tea with the Queen,” said James when I carefully navigated my way to my desk, the petticoat making me approximately twice my usual width.
“Or like you’re about to start singing and woodland creatures will appear to help you clean the office,” added Marcus, who’d stopped by specifically because Emma had texted him that my outfit was “a historical event not to be missed.”
I felt like I was cosplaying as someone from another era—which I suppose I was. Every movement required thought, from how I sat down (carefully, with the skirt arranged just so) to how I ate lunch (delicately, to avoid staining the pale fabric). It was exhausting but also oddly transporting, like I’d stepped into a different set of cultural expectations and limitations.
The most interesting reaction came from an older editor who rarely notices anything about anyone’s appearance. She stopped by my desk mid-afternoon and said, almost wistfully, “You look lovely. Like a proper young lady.” There was something in her tone—a nostalgia, perhaps, for a time when femininity had clearer parameters and rewards—that caught me off guard.
Did I feel lovely? Yes and no. The outfit was beautiful in an objective sense, but it required a level of performance I found draining. By the end of the day, I felt like I’d been holding my breath for hours, unable to fully relax into my body or space.
THE WEEKEND: FESTIVAL FASHION NIGHTMARE
I’d been dreading the weekend portion of this experiment, knowing I couldn’t hide behind the relative normality of office attire. Emma and Jade had saved their most outrageous selections for Saturday and Sunday, when I’d normally be in my most comfortable jeans and worn-in t-shirts.
Saturday’s look can only be described as “festival fashion gone wrong”—denim shorts cut high enough to be concerning, a crochet top that revealed more than it covered, a fringe vest, metallic temporary tattoos, glitter eyeshadow, and the kind of impractical boots that guarantee blisters within 30 minutes. My hair was styled in what Emma called “mermaid waves” but what felt more like “hasn’t been brushed in three days chic.”
“I look like I’m on my way to Coachella, but I’ve never actually listened to music,” I said, staring at my reflection in horror.
“That’s exactly the vibe we’re going for,” Jade confirmed cheerfully.
Wearing this look to meet friends for brunch was an exercise in pure social courage. I felt exposed, awkward, and impossible to explain to anyone who didn’t know about the experiment. My friend Tyler actually walked past me twice on the street before recognizing me, then couldn’t stop laughing long enough to form complete sentences.
“What… why… is this a midlife crisis?” he finally managed, echoing James’s concern from earlier in the week.
“It’s for an article,” I explained for what felt like the hundredth time. “I’m dressing as the opposite of myself for a week.”
“Mission accomplished,” he said, still laughing. “I would never have believed that was you if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”
The brunch itself was an exercise in discomfort, both physical (those shorts were NOT designed for sitting) and social. I felt the stares of other diners, caught the smirks of the waitstaff, noticed how the host’s eyes widened slightly when I gave my name for the reservation. My friends, to their credit, got over the initial shock quickly and tried to act normal, but there was an unavoidable awkwardness to the whole interaction.
For someone who typically hates calling attention to herself, it was excruciating. But it was also, I had to admit, illuminating. There’s a particular social cost to dressing in a way that invites judgment—a cost I’m usually insulated from in my carefully curated, appropriately cool uniform.
By Sunday, the final day of my experiment, I was emotionally drained but determined to finish strong. The last look was “Extremely Online Influencer”—a matching pastel sweatsuit, chunky dad sneakers, oversized designer sunglasses, and the kind of elaborately contoured makeup that’s designed to look perfect in photos but slightly alarming in person.
Emma and Jade insisted that I not only wear this outfit to get coffee and run errands but that I document it “for the ‘gram” as if I were actually trying to build a personal brand around this aesthetic. This meant awkwardly posing with my coffee cup, asking a bemused stranger to take photos of me pretending to laugh while walking down the street, and generally engaging in the kind of performative self-documentation that makes me want to throw my phone into the Hudson River.
“You have to post at least one,” insisted Emma. “For the full experience.”
And so I did, uploading a carefully filtered photo with an appropriately vague inspirational caption. The likes and comments rolled in—more engagement than my account usually receives—along with confused messages from friends asking if I’d been hacked.
It was, in many ways, the perfect culmination of the week: not just wearing a costume but inviting public validation of it, participating in a visual economy I usually observe from a critical distance.
THE AFTERMATH
By Sunday night, I was desperate to return to my own clothes. I practically dove into my closet, pulling on my favorite worn jeans and black sweater with the ceremonial reverence of someone returning to a beloved homeland after a long exile.
But something felt different. The outfit was exactly the same as it had been a week ago, but I was seeing it through new eyes—eyes that had experienced a much wider range of stylistic possibilities, however uncomfortable they’d been. My “normal” suddenly felt less like an inevitable expression of my true self and more like one option among many—a choice I’d made and reinforced over years until it hardened into identity.
This was the existential crisis part of the experiment that I’d half-jokingly included in the title of the article I was mentally composing. If I could feel like such a different person in different clothes—if external presentation could so dramatically alter both how I was perceived and how I perceived myself—then what did that mean about the stability of identity itself? Was my carefully cultivated aesthetic actually a core expression of who I am, or just a comfortable habit I’d mistaken for selfhood?
Over drinks that night, I tried to articulate this to Emma and Jade.
“I feel… I don’t know, weirdly destabilized,” I admitted. “Like I’ve been doing this performance of ‘me’ for so long that I forgot it was a performance at all.”
“Welcome to the human condition,” said Jade, who majored in philosophy and never lets anyone forget it.
“But don’t you think some styles feel more authentic than others?” I pressed. “The pink suit was obviously a costume, but my normal clothes feel like… me.”
“Maybe,” Emma said thoughtfully, “but ‘you’ is also something you created, right? You weren’t born in black jeans and vintage t-shirts. You chose that aesthetic at some point because it expressed something you wanted to express.”
She was right, of course. I could trace the evolution of my style through distinct phases of my life: the experimental college years, the broke early-career attempt at minimalism, the gradual refinement as I moved up in the fashion world. None of it was inevitable or biologically determined. All of it was choice and circumstance and influence.
“I think what freaks me out,” I said finally, “is how much external presentation affects internal experience. I felt like a different person in those clothes—less me, but also maybe versions of me I never let myself explore.”
“So explore them,” shrugged Jade. “No one’s saying you have to burn all your black clothes and become a pastel influencer. But maybe there are elements from this week that you actually liked?”
I thought about it. The power I’d felt in the corporate outfit, despite its discomfort. The joyful exuberance of the clashing patterns. The feminine elegance of the vintage look. Even the casual confidence of the athleisure ensemble, once I got over the fear of visible panty lines.
“Maybe,” I admitted. “I did kind of like how I felt in that corporate outfit during the client meeting. And the vintage dress was objectively beautiful, even if I couldn’t breathe properly.”
“See?” Emma looked triumphant. “Fashion inertia broken!”
I wouldn’t go that far, but in the weeks since the experiment, I’ve found myself making slightly different choices—small departures from my usual uniform that would have felt impossible before. A structured blazer in navy instead of black. A floral dress worn with combat boots to avoid total feminine overload. Even, god help me, a matching workout set that I’ve worn to actual exercise classes rather than just for coffee acquisition.
None of these choices feels like a radical reinvention, but they represent a loosening of self-definition that feels significant. The rigid boundaries of “my style” versus “not my style” have softened, allowing for more play, more experimentation, more response to mood and circumstance.
Do I still love my black jeans and vintage t-shirts? Absolutely. They remain the core of my wardrobe, the pieces I reach for most often, the silhouettes in which I feel most capable and comfortable. But they’ve become less of an identity and more of a preference—one option among many, rather than the only acceptable expression of self.
The greatest gift of this ridiculous experiment might be precisely that: the recognition that aesthetic choices aren’t destiny, that identity is more fluid than fixed, that trying something new doesn’t have to threaten who you’ve been.
That said, if you ever see me voluntarily wearing denim shorts with a crochet top, please stage an intervention immediately. Some boundaries are worth maintaining.
