Since college, I’ve been in the habit of wearing a different outfit every day. It was meditative, but the opposite of ascetic: I owned enough clothing to stock a small boutique, and some mornings, I’d be hopping over piles of clothes, searching for some elusive garment. And I’m not alone: Even in these salad-and-juice-cleansing days of pare down, flush out, and start over, I know women who eat no gluten, sugar, dairy, or meat and yet can’t close their closet door. It seems we’re willing to simplify what we put into our bodies down to the basest elements, but when it comes to our closets, it’s the more excess, the merrier. And sure, exploring identity through fashion is part of being young; once you know who you are and what you want to do, it stands to reason you’re also figuring out what looks like you. But a month before my 27th birthday, I started to feel like I needed fewer identities in rotation. And so I decided to embark on an experiment: I would wear the same outfit every day for a week. I’d stick to a look that seemed like it could carry me from day to night easily, could account for springtime weather fluctuations, and that would allow me to feel like myself no matter what. But I was a little worried. Once I landed on this perfect fashion baseline, would I realize I didn’t need to tweak my silhouette anymore or experiment with texture and line? Would I lose a taste for fashion or find new clarity?
Day 1: I pull some inspiration from two friends who work in Thom Browne’s atelier (where tailoring is everything) and choose a navy blue J.Crew T-shirt, Céline tuxedo pants, a gray cashmere cardigan, a black leather Libby Lane tote, and plain white Converse sneakers. I feel clean, the kind of adrenaline rush you feel on a juice detox. I feel streamlined enough to have lunch with an editor, and cool enough to meet friends that evening for a drink.
Day 2: That “I don’t need any other clothes in my closet!” feeling plummets quickly. I try slouching the pants a little further and tucking in my shirt so that the look feels different. It works until I have lunch with a friend who saw me the day before—I hurriedly start to explain the project before she asks why I’m wearing yesterday’s outfit. She interrupts my rambling to say that she didn’t notice. To hear that people close to me might not pay attention to my carefully chosen outfits was at once comforting (I have a personality!) and a little devastating.
Day 3: I wake up and make a red-berry smoothie in some thinly veiled form of self-sabotage, secretly hoping some irreversible stain from all the pouring and chopping will “make” me change. It doesn’t. I feel the urge to adjust something, so I go to my room and conduct a massive clean. Over the course of the day, I feel my focus shifting outside myself and onto fragrance: I light candles to scent the room to match the time of day—Le Labo’s Santal 33 around 3:00 p.m., Diptyque Feu de Bois at 5:00, and play with perfumes (Balenciaga for day, Margiela for night). It’s funny how fragrance can affect the way you experience something, even a wrinkled T-shirt. I go to a friend’s birthday dinner and feel a little flat. It’s one of the first warm nights of spring, and my friends are introducing their off-the-shoulder shirts, white pants, and spring prints to the table like new lovers. “I hate you,“ I direct little thought daggers to a pair of cool loafers I spot on the subway and a white blazer I see at my local coffee shop. But then, the tides turn when I get to the front of the counter. “Hey, so where do you live?“ the barista asks. After months of coming in almost daily, my repeated ensemble meant she finally recognized me with enough confidence to start a conversation. By wearing the same clothes every day, I was making myself memorable. I make a note: For all the effortlessness that uniform dressers project, their signature look is also a means of personal branding.
Day 4: I am resigned to my outfit, and feel a little relieved when I wake up and know what I am going to look like. The main event of my morning is making breakfast, and eating it, unrushed, while reading. When I step out, I find that I’m focused more on what I am seeing instead of what others see on me. I experience little pangs of desire when I walk by the Prada store, but instead of wishing I could try on all the clothes, I just imagine one pair of sleek oxfords that would look a little chicer with my tux pants than my Converse.
Day 5: This is the real test. I’m leaving for a weekend bachelorette trip upstate with a group of girlfriends. When we arrive and people claim their rooms and start to get dressed for dinner, someone calls out, “Does anyone have a full-length mirror?“ I realize that I hadn’t even looked. I feel proud of my fashion freedom until later that weekend, when we go out antiquing and everyone seems to put on the same faded denim, brown boots, and flannels. I wasn’t in sync aesthetically and it bothered me. Admittedly, I looked at my reflection in every antique-shop vanity mirror in that little upstate town. But by the end of the trip, I start to feel that the contrast between me and my surroundings was interesting in and of itself. I was putting my own personal style out into the world, instead of outfitting myself for my environment. It was a freeing thought.
Day 8: I am finally free of my uniform, and wake up elated that I could revisit, say, a button-down. But when I stand in front of my closet, my first thought is, Why do I need any of this? Granted, it was a jolt reaction to the cleanse (I button up said button-down and feel the old familiar rush in my limbs imagining all the ways I can wear it), but I don’t feel that same need to be a revolutionary in my dress from the week before. Running late for a party the next night, I find myself grabbing those same tux pants and the same navy tee. Granted, I threw on a blazer, too, but suddenly it was clear what was excessive in my wardrobe. I can’t remember the last time I wore a dress. Half of my jeans are hardly worn, and everything but the colors navy, black, cream, and hunter green has migrated to the fringes of my closet. Over the next two weeks, I slowly start to prune the excess: I actually put my Ikea wardrobe on Craigslist and move my clothes to a small hall closet, and quickly sell a Prada skirt—a once-prized possession that I bought during high season—on eBay. I feel lighter, and thrifty, which I can assure you is rare for someone who buys Prada separates during high season.
Taking on a uniform made me reconsider what I’m trying to say about myself with fashion, albeit in a more focused way. I did miss the fun of dreaming up a new stylish character everyday, but trimming the fat in my wardrobe freed up my mind for other creative endeavors, plus it made some much needed space in my Brooklyn apartment. But even so, there are few things that compare to the thrill of seeing something truly new on the runway, new possibilities, new silhouettes . . . and yet for now I’m happy to keep that ferocious appetite for fashion in check.
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