The Mono-Wardrobe: Reframing Personal Perspectives on Body and Style
By Dani Pippin
Artwork by Jing Tong Teo
For the past six months, I’ve worn pretty much the exact same outfit: a black long sleeve fitted t-shirt and black pants or shorts, depending on the weather. There were exceptions for special occasions, like when I visited my family over Christmas or went out on a double date with friends. But for most mornings, getting dressed was picking out one of six identical black shirts and the cleanest pair of pants I had.
I didn’t start this routine consciously. I would love to say that I was on some self-improvement journey, embracing minimalism and rejecting the pressure of consumerism. The truth is a lot more practical: most of my clothes were noticeably worn, didn’t fit my style or physically didn’t fit anymore. I didn’t have enough money for a new wardrobe — especially not for one that was cute or trendy.
The experience of opening my closet and having to sift through stacks of clothes I didn’t like and couldn’t wear was stressful and demoralizing, whereas the shirt I had picked up at the discount store was comfortable and didn’t make me feel terrible about myself. I immediately went back and bought five more. I ordered some loose fit black trousers that were on clearance online, and that was that. I just gave up.
I had no expectations going in. All I knew was that I was tired of the overwhelming self criticism and anxiety that had become a part of getting dressed every day. I didn’t want to deal with it anymore and, you know what? I worked from home; there was a pandemic happening, and all my friends lived an $850 flight away. The only other place I went to was the gym, thus, there were absolutely no stakes. It never occurred to me that something as simple as what I wore everyday was influencing how I felt about so many other things in my life.
The biggest benefit, right off the bat, was a sense of relief. I didn’t have to think about my body anymore; I didn’t have to be reminded that I couldn’t fit into the jeans I had bought when I was 14 years old. I was able to get dressed without taking my appearance into consideration. I would look in the mirror to make sure I looked clean, and that was about it — no trying things on, no second-guessing, and no judging. I had not even realized how much my relationship to my body was dependent on what I wore until it stopped.
Clothing sizes, fits and styles had been measuring tapes that I held against myself, used to evaluate my appearance, control how I was perceived, and hide the things I didn’t like. How much I liked the way an outfit — a piece of clothing even — looked on me determined whether I would have a good or bad day. Limiting my wardrobe changed how I fundamentally felt about myself. With my new selection, clothes were just clothes, and I was just me. There was no right or wrong, everything just was. The bizarre morality I had assigned to my own ability to live up to some undefined concept of beauty was out of the equation.
As soon as my own perception of self shifted, how I saw others did too — or, rather, my perception of how they saw me. My physical appearance was no longer a reflection of who I was, so there was no intrinsic meaning in how I presented myself. Any assumptions that anyone made about me based on my appearance would be based on their own projection of what was, essentially, a completely blank slate. I stopped caring.
I’m aware this probably sounds bland and sad. Fashion and presentation is all about self-expression, so the idea that there was nothing of myself in my appearance is a little bit depressing. But, at the same time, it protected me. I felt that by giving those around me absolutely nothing of myself through this avenue, I was protected. Now, this is not the most healthy approach, at least not long term, but it worked for what I needed in the moment, and eventually, not caring helped me learn not to care in the moments even when I am genuinely expressing myself.
It wasn’t like I felt this way in a vacuum. The constantly shortening trend cycle and exposure to social media made me feel an enormous pressure, like getting dressed was some challenge that I could be failing at. I had owned the same clothes for years, and new clothes were always from the thrift store or the clearance rack. Even the cheapest of fast fashion was still more expensive than I could justify, and although I didn’t have the financial option to participate in trends, feeling like I should be able to was exhausting. Having the option to completely opt out in a very intentional way was, and still is, incredibly relieving.
But does rejecting fast fashion in a meaningful way really need to be that extreme? People seem to lash out when anyone even suggests that perhaps they should stop buying clothes from Shein or H&M, or any of the other dozen fast fashion retailers. Is there some happy medium where it's possible to not participate in fast fashion, while also not having the wardrobe choices of a monk? If we’re looking for absolute morality, the answer is much harsher than anyone wants to hear.
Aren’t people who create fashion content implicit in creating a demand for these clothes? Aren’t people who chase unsustainable trends complicit by funding the industry and perpetuating the trend’s popularity with their participation?
The truth is much more complicated, and there are compromises and solutions that don’t involve wearing the same thing all week. The mono-wardrobe, a uniform for the everyday, was an easy way out for me. I didn’t have to negotiate my role in the industry or confront the ways in which I could be harming others. I simply stopped buying clothes. When eventually I started purchasing clothes again, knowing that I had a complete wardrobe covered helped me make better decisions. Anything I buy now is because I really love it, not because I feel like I need it, which has pushed me to develop, understand and stick to my personal style.
Now that I’ve passed the six month mark, I’m shifting back into wearing a variety of clothes, learning to be comfortable with expressing myself and embracing a style outside of trends. I’m not putting pressure on myself to stick to my all-black wardrobe, but I’m also not putting pressure on myself to pick out different outfits. I don’t want to replace the restrictions I was able to avoid with a new set of restrictions.
My approach is more balanced now. I have an understanding of what I want and what makes me happy, so I know for a fact that I can be comfortable and confident without a good outfit or stylish clothes. I know that I’m prioritized, and that I’m in charge — not the clothes. I know that I have an alternative whenever I start feeling stressed by trends and consumer culture. Having completely stepped away and gained new perspective, albeit a bit more extreme than the usual, I can honestly say that it’s worth a try. ♦