C’mon, man. How am I supposed to compete with this? What in the actual fuck. In my mind, if I walked into my local bar casually rocking a tobacco brown, cropped double-breasted suit (let alone the shaggy lilac crewneck layered underneath it), I’d look like a fucking idiot. Not so, says Harry Styles. Has there ever been a more aptly named superstar?
Every time I click on a picture of this guy stunting in yet another meticulously tailored fit, I start to seriously contemplate recklessly buying shit I have no business ever wearing. A slightly boxy suit jacket with a peak lapel so fat you could land a small plane on it with finesse? Say less, king. A frilly peter pan-collar blouse with subtle lace detailing? If Austen-era drip isn’t on your mood-board by now, you done goofed, my guy. A hint of milky white pearls slung insouciantly just below the collarbone? Don’t threaten me with a good time, you dirty dog! I’ve been ogling this blessed for 10 minutes straight and toggling back and forth between double that amount of tabs on my computer for about as long.
Styles is an example par excellence of the way young, stylish dudes (see Chalamet, Timothee; the Creator, Tyler) have emphatically embraced suiting as a critical element of their personal style, and few do it better than the former 1D frontman. Styles tends to prefer a look that’s a little bit retro (peep the subtle flare on the trousers), a little bit louche (that flyaway hair, the barely-there scruff), and a whole lot him (on a more somber note, the black ribbon he’s wearing seems to be a tribute to ex-girlfriend Caroline Flack, who died by suicide on Saturday).
Getting dressed is a way of telling a story, and from the fun stuff to more weighty matters, Harry Styles knows that. He ain’t a snack. He’s the whole damn meal.
Source : Esquire