Look, when you’re a middle school teacher who makes $34,000 a year, spending $200 on costume pieces for a scientific study of yourself is “financially irresponsible” even by your own standards. But I had to explain to my wife Jessica that our Target budget for the week went toward that plastic priest collar and the horrible fake mustache that smells like acrylic resin. “It’s for research,” I told her. Which was true!
But what I left out was that most of my research would be dedicated toward seeing if people yelled at me when I went to Publix dressed as a Birmingham gangster. Let’s back up. Some articles about clothes and confidence had caught my eye the month before.
Psychology journals with words like “enclothed” and “cognition” in the title. Basically, donning certain outfits actually affects your behavior.
Peer-reviewed studies back into how clothing changes the way you carry yourself.
Which made perfect sense to me. When I wore my one “good” blazer vs my Target button-up shirt and Kohls khakis, I saw differences in how students treated me. Teachers too.
But I wanted to study this scientifically. What better way than dressing as characters from my favorite TV shows for a whole week? I settled on five characters from five British shows.
Because let’s face it: most American television attire is either Dad clothes or Business Professional you can’t afford. But British television allows you to be Working Class Warrior, Mad Scientist, Boyish Anthropologist, Distressed Poet, and Cigarette-Smoking Moriarty. It only seemed right to thank the Brits by dressing up like their finest television exports.
My biggest fear: spending money. Jessica and I plan our budget down to the penny and costume studs and gold chains don’t exactly fall under necessary expenses. But I reasoned that if I was going to do this, I had to be able to wear it after Sunday.
No thin fabric superhero capes or Halloween costumes from Express. Everything had to be reusable in some capacity. Monday was Tommy Shelby, the leader of the Peaky Blinders gang.
I figured I’d start slow. Already owned most of the pieces. Navy three-piece suit I purchased when I got married (Men’s Wearhouse buy one get one half price, whomp whomp), crisp white button-up shirt, black boots.
All I needed to buy was the Shelby flat cap and a pocket watch chain. Came to $40 even. Not too shabby.
The flat cap changed everything. I wear hats back when Hogwarts offered tuition scholarships and field trips, but nothing since. They make me feel like a toddler dressed up in oversized clothes.
But something about a proper flat cap altered my posture. Walking to school that Monday I had a swagger I didn’t know I was missing. Didn’t realized I slouched quite so much until my chest was bumped out and head pushed forward.
I’m normally that minute that says sorry when someone brushes past me. Monday morning, I made eye-contact with strangers. My students might not have known British gangsters from the 1920s but they sure knew when their teacher was acting funky. “Mr.
Peterson, why are you scary today?” Madison quipped, which I took as a compliment. Attempted my best Birmingham accent the entire day. Probably sounded like Paul Hogan from Crocodile Dundee, but hey, it worked.
Tommy Shelby magic kept two normally rowdy classes completely silent while I lectured on the periodic table. Later that Monday, my crush on Brits intensified when the copier repair dude came by. Normally he grunts at me when that cigarette-powered machine decides to eat my teachers’ lessons.
Not this guy. Called me sir. Clearly explained things to me.
Gave me the direct number to his company instead of the outsourced call center. The flat cap, man. Tuesday was all about the Twelfth Doctor.
Peter Capaldi, to be specific. I may be Scottish on my mother’s side, but I will never nail David Tennant’s curly hair. So DIY wasn’t an option.
Needed: navy velvet blazer, black jeans, white button-up shirt. Immediately went thrifting. Visited every Goodwill and thrift store in Columbus until I found one lone blazer hiding at Plato’s Closet.
Thirty-five bucks. Pretty good for velvet. Chucked my thrifted black JEANs on, college Adidas I dug out of retirement, and Dr.
Marten boots I treated myself to on my 30th birthday. Grand total? About $50 if you don’t count shoes I already owned.
Dressed as Doctor Who, I completely nerded out on my students. Turned trig problems into lessons about space and time. Had kids question if the library “really existed.” Asked me what my third verse was too many times.
Gained insightful knowledge that my eighth graders think Justin Bieber is still popular. But I had three kids come ask me about constellations after school. That’s more than I can say for any other day this semester.
The blazer though. Friends, the blazer gave me life. All day I felt smarter.
Quirky. Loved every second of accentuating my arm gestures while teaching about chemical bonds. Quizzed my kids during lunch and they were INTO IT.
Walked back to my classroom after lunch duty, gave an impassioned speech about the importance of cafeteria pizza as a symbol of mankind’s victory over all that is chill and… people loved it? Other teachers thought I’d lost my mind. But the blazer.
Wednesday I was Ted Lasso. British soccer coach extraordinaire. Only needed khakis and a blue sweater.
But that meant buying khakis, something I haven’t done since college. Twenty-eight bucks at Target. Then hustled over to Walmart for the simplest blue sweater known to man.
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Last stop: Party City. Because what’s Ted Lasso without a good fake mustache? Fuck that mustache.
Stuck to my top lip the entire day. Tried to teach while looking like Ron Jeremy from a nineties X-rated thriller. Ted Lasso was exhausting.
Trying to maintain that positive spirit for a solid six hours wore me out. But my kids perked up. Especially my normally disruptive fourth period.
They actually DID THE GROUPWORK WITHOUT ME THREATENING TO EXPLODE IN TEARS. Had parent-teacher conference after school which meant sitting down with Mrs. Chen and talking about how her daughter Angela could do better in my class… while wearing a cheap costume mustache.
It should’ve been mortifying. But Ted Lasso had me. Instead of going into lecture-mode about what Mrs.
Chen could do to help Angela at home, I listened. About actually listened to a parent. We had a real conversation about strategies to support Angela’s learning.
And Mrs. Chen smiled when I accidentally called her coach at the end of our conference. Thursday was my turn to channel The Hot Priest from Fleabag.
Purchased this getup online, spent sixty bucks on “church clothes.” But damn was it worth it. The material felt nice. The shirt, jacket, slacks all fit perfectly.
And then there was the collar. Holy hell brothers and sisters, that collar straight-up pinched my damn neck. Reminded me of every.single.sin I’ve ever committed.
Walking into school Thursday morning felt weird. Lot of side-eye from office staff. Principal Martinez looked at me funny until I explained that I hadn’t converted to Catholicism overnight.
But you know what? I loved it. Seriously changed how people talked to me.
Got more respect. More thoughtful responses. Hell, my students were gentler with each other that entire day.
Made me wonder if we lost something with Western culture’s shift away from ceremonial wear. Removed the collar for my actual classes (Church and state, ya know? ), but kept the shirt/jacket combo on. Continued to embrace our chlorine blond clergyman all day.
Even caught myself listening closer to students. Giving more thorough responses. One kid came to my classroom after school to see if I was okay.
Said I looked “sadder” than normal. Speak for yourself, kid. I was feeling very Father Greg without the Kafkaesque punishment.) Friday I became none other than Villanelle from Killing Eve.
Which meant busting out the nice suit I bought last year during a moment of weakness at the J. Crew outlet. Hundred and fifty dollars wasted on this gorgeous checked number.
Jessica still hasn’t let me live it down. But oh man, did I feel fancy. Knew I looked sharp as hell walking into school that day.
Never have so many adults smiled and nodded along when I made small talk. Channeled all my inner Villanelle that day. Swung my posture from side to side like I was plotting someone’s murder.
Practically slurped my coffee during morning duty. My students were scared. Loved it.
Tyler looked at me and very seriously said, “Mr. Peterson, you look like a movie villain.” Spoke with more purpose that day. Made eye contact for like five seconds straight.
Gave attitude to kids who deserved it. Never felt more badass teaching geometry. By the time Friday rolled around I was fried.
Exhausted from a week of totally embodying characters. But the moral of the story? Clothes matter.
More than just “put your best foot forward” type of stuff. They change how you perceive yourself. Maybe we’re shallow for letting our attire affect our mood, but at least we’re honest about it.
So I wore a flat cap and walked like Tony Stark walking into a Starbucks. Promise myself I’ll keep the vest. Wear the blazer for PTA meetings and parent conferences.
Freaking love that blazer. The collar is currently lounging in my drawer, serving as a painful reminder of my hour with the Church of Fake Christianity.
As for the mustache?
Straight-up tossed in the garbage. Took me two hundred bucks to complete my BritishCharactersForAVeryPatrioticAmericanCostumeChallenge but man, is Jessica pissed. Thankfully she understood the purpose of the experiment.
Hell, she even participated by telling me “you walked different all week.” Guess it worked then. Did I change because of the clothes I wore? Or was I finally acting like the self-assured person my blazers, vests, and fake British accents wanted me to be?
Either way, we all wear costumes. Teacher Clothes, Mom Jeans, Business Attire, Fucking Jeans It’s Friday Clothes. Wear outfits that make you feel like the best version of yourself.
And if that version of you rocked a stupid flat cap and walked like Johnnie Walker telling life how it’ll bleed you, then by all means hug your chest and stroll into Target. Judgmental glances be damned.
