This experiment started as a bet with my nephew James. I was out having drinks with him. He’s 28 and lives in Shoreditch now.
Works in tech. Thinks wearing a hoodie is “business casual.” We were talking about clothes – or, rather, he was making cracks about how clothes don’t matter anymore and I’m “grandpa basic” and whatnot. This is the kid who showed up to his job interview wearing sneakers.
Bless his heart. I raised my glass in a mock toast and downed half of my scotch. “You know what matters?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Fashion.
Clothes matter. Clothes change how people treat you, how you carry yourself, how you even think.” He eyed me skeptically. All of twenty-eight years old.
That “lol old man” face people make. “Prove it,” he challenged. I swore he smirked. So that’s how I found myself dedicating an entire week to dressing as British television characters.
Like, full-on dressing as characters. At fifty- two. With clients who pay me thousands of pounds to dress smartly and professionally around them.
Margaret thought I was crazy. “You’re what, wearing costumes to the office?” she asked in that tone she uses when I buy another pair of sneakers I don’t need. She and I have been married twenty-four years. She knows when to give up arguing with me.
Plus, I think she was sort of curious to see how it would go. The rules were simple: full commitment to each character’s aesthetic. No half measures.
I would still have to go to work, see clients, go to court. You know, my regular professional Monday through Friday. If I was going to prove that clothes impact how people perceive and treat you and how you behave, I was going to do it in settings that actually mattered.
Monday I woke up and looked in my bedroom mirror preparing to pull on a flat cap and embody all the intimidating crime lord energy of Tommy Shelby from Peaky Blinders. Important note about me: I am not intimidating. My mother still talks to me like I’m eighteen whenever I get in trouble.
I say “please” and “thank you” to voice mail prompts. At his funeral, they should play a montage of me comforting others instead of the other way around. But anyway.
Point is, I am about as tough as they come. Which meant this absurd experiment was already off to a great start. But his wardrobe wasn’t totally unfamiliar to me.
Tweed three-piece suit. Penny collar shirt. Wool overcoat.
These were things I could get behind, even if I’m not usually one to wear a shirt with a collar stick-out so people think I’m some sort of scar-faced gangster mastermind. The main differences? A collar pin instead of a tie.
Pocket watch chain. Boot shoes instead of regular Oxford brogues. And that cap, of course.
I ordered me a Garrison flat cap replica online. But I did not actually sew real razor blades into the peak like Shelby apparently does. I still walked taller walking to meet my first client that day than I usually do.
Straighter. Held eye contact longer when I was walking past people on the street. Got more than one great canoodle as I climbed onto the train.
I met my client, a gallery owner I’ve known for years, at Jubilee Gallery in Blackfriars. As I marched through the door of this upscale South London gallery, the receptionist actually looked up and stopped talking out of her nose. The gallery owner, a wiry older guy named Geoffrey who I’ve worked with since I started this job over ten years ago, gave me a once-over and visibly straightened his posture where he sat. “Arthur!” he said, shaking my hand with more firmness than normal. “You look…establishing.” The meeting with Geoffrey went better than it ever has.
And it wasn’t even because my client loved my ideas for his gallery opening (which he did). It was the way people were listening to me more. Not interrupting me.
Nodding when I made a point instead of countering with their own thoughts. One of Geoffrey’s assistants, a sassy young upstart who always butts heads with me during meetings, didn’t even speak when I laid out my proposal. She just sat there, leaning forward, and nodded.
Was this what powerful men are like? Is this what it’s like to walk into a room and have everyone just know you mean business? The walk home from the office was a revelation.
Normally, I let people elbow me on the tube. Offer my seat up to strangers when I can. Apologize every time someone bumps into me.
Not as Tommy Shelby. My shoulder lightly brushed against an old man’s as I got off the train, and he grunted something at me and got out of my way. On the street, people stepped aside to let me pass.
A woman smiled at me and held the door open as I passed her. I watched someone scoot over to let me take the empty seat on the bus home from work. It was life-changing.
Tuesday I became the Twelfth Doctor. Ok, so full disclosure. I picked the Twelfth Doctor because I have no hair for David Tennant’s Doctor and Billie Piper’s Rose.
While Peter Capaldi may not have the long lashes of previous Doctors, I’ve always been a sucker for his punk-rocker/Victorian-professor look. Blue velvet jacket with red lining. Black skinny pants.
White button up. And of course, those glorious Docs. Bonus points: I even penciled my eyebrows in darker to really channel Capaldi’s signature eyebrow scowl.
I couldn’t quite match Capaldi’s cadence – how could anyone? – but by 10am I’d launched into two epic speeches about creativity and three about the universe being bigger than any of us can comprehend. Halfway through our weekly editorial meeting, I found myself flailing my arms like I was on the roof of a police car and ranting about second quarters when all humans need to do is believe. Side note: My team at Sartorial Him are used to me pushing fashion boundaries.
They thought dressing as Doctor Who was…understandably ridiculous, but they actually applauded me when I breezed into the office whistling Stars on Ice, coat fluttering behind me like some sort of manic superhero. Our social media coordinator, Ebony, looked at me dumbfounded. “Are you… cosplaying?” She’s a huge Doctor Who fan and immediately began asking me about Timey Whozy Whatsits. It was Ebony who later told me she found herself pausing before interrupting me during our lunch meeting with a potential new contributor.
We were set to chat about breaking into the industry, how to network, how to find your voice. Instead we spent forty-five minutes – andtrust me, I know because I tweeted the time – discussing fate versus free will and how passion projects are important but salary matters, too. She still checked her resume/portfolio with me at the end of our meeting, but something about my pajamas Doctor energy made the afternoon feel less like a job and more like sharing ideas with a friend.
Which, isn’t that what mentoring is? Three people asked me if I was going to Comic Con later that day. Another asked me for a list of comedy magic acts in the city.
Strangers on the street complimented my ego. Doctor clothes send a very clear message: “mad genius, but a nice mad genius you can trust.” Which is great, except I am not actually a mad genius. Nor do I work in comedy magic.
Wednesday was TED (Ted Ellis) Lasso. The forever upbeat former American football turned British soccer coach. Let me just start by saying I am not from America.
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And while I pride myself on being a happy person, Mr. Perpetual Sunshine Lasso takes it to a whole new level. And I’m also not really into his style.
Short sets of khakis? Boss of me. Light blue jumper over a checked shirt?
Dad-core at its finest. Aviators? Please.
And topping it all off: a painted on mustache and whistle hung around my neck. I spent fifteen minutes in front of the mirror practicing my “I believe in believe” with a Texas accent Margaret later described as “god-awful.” I even scheduled my dentist appointment on Wednesday because let’s be real: if anyone was going to judge me about the wig mustache it was Dr. Patterson.
He actually gritted his teeth when I refused to take it off for him to see my gums “for work reasons.” I compromised by pulling it down while he checked my teeth but putting it back on in the waiting room. Kids were crying while getting their braces removed across from me and I found myself cheering them up with unlimitedTed Lasso pep talks. Ok but for real this time: Something about trying to embrace Ted’s innate cheer went a long way.
Patted the barista on the shoulder as I paid for my coffee. Left sticky notes of encouragement on top of bills for service workers to find. Texted my most cynical friends affirmations they responded to with variants of “what the hell are you doing?” and “are you okay? !” The more I smiled at strangers.
Cheered people on. Literally bounced around the office, the more….happy I felt! My mood wasn’t fake anymore.
By lunchtime I actually believed what I was saying. Fake it till you make it, am I right? Dinner that night with my friend Rajesh was…eventful.
He saw me coming down the street and laughed so hard he fell over. “You look like your high school gym teacher crossed with Homer Simpson’s fantasy of a man,” he said when he recovered. Which was fair. By the end of dinner he admitted that despite himself Ted Lasso’s energ helped me “annoyingly likeable.” “It’s like yelling at a golden retriever,” he said. “You know you shouldn’t but you just can’t help yourself.” Thursday I became the Hot Priest from Fleabag.
Now we’re getting into my comfort zone. All black everything. Clergy shirt.
Clergy pants. That fabulous charcoal-grey, monk’s cowl-style jacket that will forever have me thinking inappropriate thoughts about village priests. It’s a weird feeling buttoning up a fake collar and realizing your neck doesn’t actually hurt from being whipped.
Call me crazy but wearing the Hot Priest’s wardrobe gave me a newfound respect for the priesthood. I will say, I was worried bothering the line into sacrilegious…but Fleabag’s hot priest is also equal parts fictional and self-loathing so I didn’t feel that bad about it? Still, I wouldn’t say “hello, Father H” to strangers.
But aside from the spiritual component of dressing as a priest, I found people treated me differently all day. Better. Politer.
No one cursed around me. No one swatted at me when I got too close on the street. I caught myself being a better version of myself, too.
More patient. Listening more. Speaking clearly.
Making eye contact. Father realitycheckted me when I started going in for a pep talk with a frazzled mother outside of Primark. I broke it for her.
She looked relieved. The highlight? Coming outside of M&S and an elderly woman waved me down. “Father?” She nodded at my chest. “God bless you, son.” Panicked, I stammered something about a train to catch and fled.
Friday was Killing Eve’s Villanelle. No pink tulle ballgown for the office. But I dug up her signature suit from season one to close out the week.
It’s similar to something I own (hello, retail therapy as a form of wage taxation), so with a messy topknot and my fiercest stare I was ready to bring my inner assassin to work. Warning: this pick sparked the most backlash with friends. “Isn’t it weird dressing as a female?” James texted me. Men can wear women’s clothing.
Villanelle wears suits. Shocking, I know. Even Bowie wasn’t weird about wearing dresses and kicking death metal.
So I had a big pitch meeting with one of our more luxury-leaning clients. A group of seriously stuffy British fashion folks who I had to meet wearing the sharp dressed – I mean killing – womensuit I bought myself to celebrate our London editor finishing therapy. I decided to channel my inner Villanelle for the meeting: confidently rude, challenging eye contact, and a smirk that basically said “I could kill you and feel nothing.” Worked.
So well. One of the execs pushed back on our numbers, and instead of tactfully explaining why we needed what we budgeted for I stared him down. My chest literally swelled with empowerment as I locked eyes with him, burning into his soul with that Villanelle stare that says…I can murder you and love you both at the same time?
Turns out if you give someone that look, they back down. He muttered something about “never mind that then” and shrugged, turning back to the presentation. I got compliments all day on my suit.
Which it’s objectively amazing. But the suit itself wasn’t what changed how I carried myself Walking through Covent Garden on my lunch break I felt larger than life. More sure of my decisions.
More. Post-work drinks with my entire team at Sartorial Him was the ultimate experiment climax. I considered changing but I was having too much fun!
Our EIC looked up at me climbing the bar. “Villanelle, correct?” She nodded knowingly. I was strangely delighted someone got my reference immediately. Team was split down the middle whether they thought it was awesome or unnerving AF that I was basically bragging about being a psychopathic assassin over wine.
Moral of the story: clothes matter. Look, I know we’re all supposed to be past this whole “getting dressed up changes your attitude” nonsense. Wear what you want.
Clothes don’t make the man. Except they kind of do? Dressing as British TV icons for an entire week taught me that clothes can absolutely change how you feel about yourself, how you carry yourself, and how people treat you.
I felt more confident dressed as Tommie Shelby. More adventurous as the Doctor.
Happy as hell being Ted Lasso.
And yes, even better about God as that Pipkin wearing fake priest. We all have days we wake up and feel invincible. Other days we could cry walking out the door.
What if you got dressed up and felt that way every day? Would you? Will I ever wear another stupid mustache to a client meeting?
No. Will I be purchasing more three piece suits that give off intimidating Tommie Shelby vibes? You bet your sweet ass I will.
And the next time I need to boss up for an important presentation, you better believe I’ll be rocking matching suit prints à la Villanelle. Just don’t sit with your back on my chair.
