The invitation landed in my inbox at precisely 11:43 on a Tuesday morning. “Sarah’s Hen Weekend!” screamed the subject line, complete with no fewer than seven champagne bottle emojis. My immediate reaction was a complex emotional cocktail—one part genuine excitement to celebrate my oldest friend, two parts dread at the prospect of penis straws and neon tutus, topped with a hefty splash of sartorial panic.
See, I have a complicated relationship with hen dos. On the one hand, I love a good celebration and any excuse to dress up. On the other hand, the standard hen party uniform gives me actual hives.
You know the one—matching t-shirts with “bride tribe” emblazoned across the chest, feather boas shedding all over your Uber, and those god-awful L-plates that announce to everyone in a five-mile radius that someone in your group is getting married, just in case the blinding pink sashes didn’t make that clear enough.
My aversion to traditional hen attire reached its peak four years ago when my cousin Ellie’s maid of honor decreed that we all had to wear identical baby-pink velour tracksuits for the entire weekend in Center Parcs. They had “BRIDE SQUAD” across the bum in diamanté. I still wake up in cold sweats thinking about cycling to the spa in that outfit, the elderly couple in matching cagoules giving us a wide berth as we squeaked past in our synthetic finery.
But here’s the thing—rejecting the L-plates doesn’t mean you can’t embrace the celebratory spirit of a hen do. There’s a whole world of sophisticated options that honor the bride without making you look like you’ve escaped from a fancy dress shop. I’ve been to seventeen hen parties in the last decade (the joys of being in your thirties), and I’ve developed something of a formula for dressing appropriately while maintaining my dignity and, crucially, still looking good in the inevitable hundreds of photos that will live forever on Instagram.
Last summer, for my friend Deepa’s hen weekend in the Cotswolds, I managed to strike that elusive balance between “festive participant” and “still recognizably myself.” We were staying in one of those impossibly picturesque converted barns that looks simple and rustic on the outside but has underfloor heating and wine fridges within. The maid of honor had mercifully specified “no dress code” but had mentioned a “fancy dinner” on the Saturday night. This gloriously vague directive gave everyone freedom to interpret “fancy” in their own way.
I opted for a structured midi dress in a rich emerald green—formal enough for dinner but comfortable enough that I could survive the inevitable 2 AM dance-off to Beyoncé in the converted barn’s living room. The key was choosing something that hit that sweet spot between everyday wear and full-on party attire. You want to look like you’ve made an effort without appearing as though you’ve confused the hen do with the actual wedding.
The dress had pockets (an absolute non-negotiable for any event where you need to keep your phone handy for photographic evidence) and was in a fabric substantial enough that I didn’t have to worry about VPL or bra straps—practical considerations that become increasingly important as the prosecco flows.
For daytime activities—which on Deepa’s hen involved a surprisingly competitive round of pottery making followed by wine tasting—I went with high-waisted jeans (the kind with actual proper stretch, not those rigid vintage ones that look amazing but mean you can’t sit down properly) paired with a silky camisole in a soft blush tone. Fancy enough to look like I’d made an effort, comfortable enough to throw a jumper over when we inevitably ended up in a pub garden with that peculiarly British determination to sit outside despite the temperature being barely in double digits.
Footwear is where many a hen do outfit falls apart. The temptation to pack your most glamorous heels is strong, but the reality of hen weekend activities means they’ll likely stay in your bag. For Deepa’s hen, I brought a pair of metallic flat sandals that worked with everything and, crucially, could handle both the cobbled streets of picturesque Cotswold villages and the inevitable spillage of at least one Aperol Spritz. I also packed a pair of block-heeled mules for dinner—high enough to elevate my outfit, stable enough that I wouldn’t break an ankle when we decided karaoke was a good idea at 1 AM.
The real secret to sophisticated hen dressing, I’ve discovered, is accessories. Rather than matching t-shirts or identical sashes, consider coordinating in subtler ways. For my friend Meredith’s Literature-themed hen in Edinburgh last year, we all wore different outfits but added book-shaped brooches that her sister had found on Etsy. It was a nod to the theme without veering into costume territory, and every time someone asked about my unusual pin, it became a conversation starter about the celebration.
For my school friend Leila’s hen in Barcelona (pre-Covid, when such jaunts were still possible), we each chose our own outfits but all wore something in her favorite shade of cobalt blue—a dress for one girl, a jumpsuit for another, a scarf for me. In the group photos, there was a subtle harmony without the uniformity of matching “Team Bride” caps. The locals still knew we were a hen party (our collective excitement and slightly too loud laughter probably gave that away), but we weren’t announcing it with penis-shaped accessories or L-plates.
If you’re the one organizing a hen do, consider suggesting a color palette rather than identical outfits. For my own hen weekend three years ago (god, was it really that long ago?), my sister asked everyone to incorporate some element of gold into their outfits for the Saturday night dinner. The results were wonderfully diverse—gold earrings for one friend, a sequined gold top for another, metallic heels for a third. We looked cohesive in photos without sacrificing individual style, and nobody felt uncomfortable in an outfit they’d never normally choose.
For Sarah’s upcoming hen do, which will involve a spa day followed by dinner and dancing in Bristol, I’ve already planned my outfits with military precision. Day one: wide-leg black trousers with a sleeveless shell top in a rich burgundy (Sarah’s favorite color), gold hoop earrings, and flat leather sandals that can transition from spa to bar. Day two: a floral wrap dress that packs without creasing (the holy grail of weekend away clothing), paired with suede ankle boots that can handle Bristol’s notoriously hilly streets.
The beauty of this approach is that everything can be reworn in real life afterward. Unlike that baby-pink velour tracksuit, which made exactly one post-hen appearance as part of a “tacky” fancy dress party before being consigned to the charity shop bag.
If you’re a bride reading this and feeling slightly concerned that forsaking the traditional hen paraphernalia might mean your weekend lacks festive spirit, fear not. In my experience, the most memorable hen dos have been those where everyone felt comfortable and confident in what they were wearing. Happy hens make for a happy bride, and nobody feels happy in an ill-fitting polyester tutu and a plastic tiara that keeps getting caught in their hair.
That said, I’m not completely against all hen do traditions. A small, subtle accessory can be a lovely keepsake. For my friend Nina’s Parisian hen weekend, her sister gave us each delicate silver charm bracelets with a tiny Eiffel Tower charm. It was something we could all wear throughout the weekend without feeling like walking advertisements for the nupty-to-be, and I still wear mine occasionally, a subtle reminder of a wonderful weekend.
The key is finding the sweet spot between celebratory and cringe-worthy. Ask yourself: Would I wear this in front of my boss? My future father-in-law? Random strangers on public transport? If the answer is a horrified “no” to all three, perhaps reconsider.
For evening events, embrace the opportunity to dress up without veering into fancy dress territory. A jumpsuit is the secret weapon of hen do dressing—comfortable enough for dancing, elegant enough for dinner, and crucially, much easier for navigating toilet trips after several glasses of wine than a complicated dress. I’ve got a black culotte-style one from Whistles that’s seen me through at least five different hen celebrations, each time styled differently with accessories to suit the bride and venue.
Comfort should be your watchword, especially for activity-based hens. There’s nothing worse than trying to participate in a cocktail-making class or, God forbid, a pole dancing workshop while constantly adjusting an outfit that won’t stay put. Choose fabrics with stretch, shapes that allow movement, and always, always bring a layer for when the air conditioning is set to “arctic” or the beer garden turns chilly as the sun sets.
Remember too that the best-dressed wedding guest rarely starts with a hangover and exhaustion from a hen do where they couldn’t sleep because their sequined outfit was scratching them all night.
Self-care is part of sophisticated hen dressing—choose outfits you can actually relax in.
As for Sarah’s hen do, I’ve already had a diplomatic word with her sister, who’s organizing the whole thing. There will be no L-plates, no sashes, no forced uniformity. Instead, she’s asked everyone to bring a photo of themselves with Sarah for a scrapbook, and to wear something that makes them feel fabulous for the Saturday night dinner. This, to me, is hen do perfection—celebrating the bride through memories and individual connections rather than matching novelty t-shirts that no one actually wants to wear.
So if you’ve got a hen do on the horizon and are dreading the prospect of temporary tattoos and tiaras, take heart. It is entirely possible to celebrate a bride-to-be with style and sophistication. Choose outfits that make you feel good, coordinate in subtle ways if you want that sense of unity, and remember that the photos will exist forever—long after the L-plates have been consigned to the bin. Here’s to celebrating impending nuptials without a single willy straw in sight. I’ll drink to that—preferably in an outfit I wouldn’t be embarrassed to bump into my boss while wearing.
