If you’ve spent your entire adult life working in fashion, like me, you’d assume I’d have it all figured out by now. That I had a developed sense of style; one that could easily inform what I bought and, most importantly, helped me pick out outfits in the morning without spiraling into an existential crisis in front of my closet because everything in it seemingly gave me nothing to wear. You’d assume that.
Spoiler alert: you’d be wrong. Fashion editors tend to be the worst-dressed people out of office hours. We are bombarded with trends all day, every day.
More collections than we could shake a runway at come across our desks each season, along with the creative inspiration of professionals who’ve mastered the art of styling clothes in ways I could only dream of. One day we’re living in oversized silhouettes because we just happened to cover a Balenciaga show, and the week after we’ll be teaming Ballet Flats with everything because we talked to someone from Miu Miu who told us that was a vibe.
It’s attention-deficit disorder for the always-trend-aware, and I’ve been afflicted for the better (worse?) part of fifteen years.
The result of this ongoing identity crisis?
A closet full of clothes that don’t make any sense together. Garments that look like they belong to three or four different people with nothing in common.
Business silk blouses hung next to vintage Graphic-Shirts. Tailored blazers shoved aside girlfriend jeans that were never that girlfriend’s jeans at all. Pointed toe flats tossed with trainers that lift me half an inch off the ground.
The mess had reached critical mass a few weeks ago when I sat on my bedroom floor at 7: 30 a.m., crying because I couldn’t find anything to wear. Nothing felt trendy enough, nothing was classic enough, nothing was professional enough, nothing felt; me. Enough.
But who was “me,” exactly? The version of myself that everything in my closet was vying to dress? I didn’t know.
When I tried to clarify it to myself, I couldn’t. Fast forward to that night, and I’m scrolling TikTok instead of picking my clothes off the floor (always putting the distractions first, myself), when I see another fashion editor rise up to preach about her latest game-changing methodology: the “Three-Word Method.” Basically, pick three words that tie together your personal style, then use those words as a filter for every single item in your closet and every clothing purchase you make moving forward. “It’s not about restricting yourself,” she says as she starts sorting a client’s wardrobe into piles: keep, donate, and; if we’re being honest; destroy. “It’s about finding your guide stars for shopping. If an article of clothing doesn’t fit at least two out of your three style words, it shouldn’t be in your closet.” I scoffed so hard, my eyes may have partially dislodged from their sockets.
Please. As if you could explain somebody’s personal style in just THREE WORDS. As if I, a woman who has wholeheartedly devoted two decades of my life to understanding clothes and how they can (or can not) work for your body; could ever be defined by some stupid tiktok trend.
Absurd. But just in case it was the secret all my former Vogue editors had mocked me about? I bookmarked it.
I woke up the next morning still thinking about these mysterious, magical, life-changing three words. What would they be for me? Could they really simplify the process of getting dressed?
And more importantly,would I STILL think about all these stupid clothes if I didn’t have to suffer through the experience of putting them on every morning? That was when it hit me: I should probably try coming up with the three words myself. Goes without saying, I grabbed my journal and got to work.
Word number one was easy: Tailored. I love clothes that feel like they’ve been fitted to my body somehow, even when they’re not. And when I say things that fit, I don’t mean custom Tailored. (Though lord knows I dream about it sometimes.) I mean constructed in a way that feels intentional.
Basically, whenever I wear something oversized, I tend to prefer it if it looks like it was meant to look that way, as opposed to just bagging at random. Sure enough, when I looked through old photos of outfits I’d loved, they all seemed to have that tailored feel to them; a crispness that withstood even the trendiest of trends. Word number two was more difficult.
Minimal? Classic? Edgy?
Drab? I could literally feel my thirty cloth options whizzing by my brain. Finally, after weeks of scrolling past ripped jeans in homage to my youth I settled on: Architectural.
Architecture. There had always been an element of buildings and structure that I’ve loved when looking at clothing. I gravitated towards interesting silhouettes and well-constructed pieces that almost looked… designed.
Not just made, but designed. And that brings me to word number three. I wanted something that encapsulated my love for usually monochrome outfits that felt exciting in some way.
Hip. Unexpected. Suddenly, it clicked: Subversive.
Together they made T.A.S: Tailored, Architectural, Subversive. Not the catchiest of phrases, I’ll give you that, but as soon as I saw those three words next to each other, I felt it. Some part of me click into place.
Like maybe I actually had a shot at defining my personal style. Of narrowing down my mornings so that instead of dragging me down, getting dressed felt freeing. Joyful, even.
The only way to test my theory? Apply it to my closet. So Saturday came and I emptied my whole dang wardrobe into my bed.
Slipping on my “Editor Stressing Over Closet” playlist (Róisín Murphy and LCD Soundsystem for the curious), I got to work. Top garments first. I took each piece in my hands and asked myself: Does this fit at least two of my style words?
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Does that white button-down I owned? Absolutely. Tailored?
Cheque. Feels almost architectural? Double cheque.
Keep! Okay, how about that lace slip dress I never seem to wear but keep “just in case?” Tailored? No.
Architectural? Sure, kind of? Definitely not subversive.
Wait, subversive how? Sigh. Straight to donation.
Piece by methodically analysed piece, I started filling up three separate piles. Keep, donate, and buy again (for the trendy things I was sure I would love now that I had my three magic words to guide me). Dresses.
Trousers. Scarves. Accessories.
Even my sock drawer didn’t escape my newfound keen eye for practicality. By the time I was done, I’d chopped my wardrobe by nearly half. And you know what?
It still felt like me. More like me, actually. I had every style of clothing I loved: brights next to neutrals, maxi skirts alongside designer shorts.
Day dresses. Tailored blazers. Dress trousers.
Sweatpants. But everything I had left was linked by a common thread: They all worked for me. No more buying pieces just because they were trendy, or that I was told were “investment.” If something didn’t fit my style?
It wasn’t getting worn. To be fair, I did indulge in one extra shopping trip when my eye for Clothesieroname-owned fashion sharpened beyond belief. Jeans are Jeans?
Not when you can find a pair of tailored Mercerico dungarees that feel so…. Subversive. I was an editing demon, a cart-clearing monster.
I browsed through store after store with a ruthlessness usually reserved for lawyers and stayed true to my.filter. If I couldn’t come up with two of my three words to justify buying something, I put it right back where it came from. No matter how good the sale was.
I ended up leaving with three totally versatile items I’ve already worn multiple times since that weekend: A tailored denim jacket with architectural sleeves, high waisted tailored shorts with unexpected buttons down the side, and a crisp poplin shirt that was …subversive? Thank you, past Harper. Those cut-outs on the cuffs are just asking for it.
Needless to say, my three-word method wasn’t just a fad. It was life-changing. Nothing has made getting dressed easier or more fun since I stopped analysing every article of clothing that passed through my hands and considered: Does this make me feel like me?
See, here’s the thing about having a solid sense of style: Trends don’t disappear your wardrobe. They enhance it. That oversized blazer I loved so much from a few paragraphs ago?
As soon as I considered it through the lens of my newfound personal style, I knew it was something I could wear. Strong shoulders? Architectural!
Perfect forwork. Pair it with some tailored trousers and whimsical jewellery and BOOM: I just turned a trendy blazer into an entirely Harper outfit. Same thing goes for those flowy bohemian dresses that were making a comeback last spring.
Not tailored? Nope.
Architectural?
No way, those beautiful fabrics were meant to Move.
With. The.
Wind. Subversive? Mhm, definitely Harper’s style.
Granted, I’ll always know better than to wear a dinosaur-print onesie to the office. No three words in the world can save me from that train wreck. But for everything else?
I feel like I can tackle it. There’s a confidence that comes with knowing what you like vs wanting you think you should like. I can’t wait to see how my style continues to evolve, now that I know myself well enough to wrap it all up in three simple words.
