It started as a joke, actually. I was on a call with my editor pitching stories for our “American Style” issue, throwing out the usual suspects—profiles of heartland designers, a deep dive on denim manufacturing in Detroit, maybe something about cowboy boots making a comeback for the seventeen-thousandth time. Catherine, my editor, sighed loudly enough that I could practically feel her eye-roll through the phone. “Harper, I’m bored just listening to these ideas. Give me something fresh. You’re always talking about how American fashion isn’t just New York and LA. Prove it.”
So I did what any reasonable fashion editor would do—I proposed dressing like different American cities for a week and documenting the results. I expected her to laugh. Instead, there was a pause, followed by a slightly maniacal chuckle. “Perfect. Five cities, five days. Full commitment, Harper. I want to really see you channel each city’s energy. Can you start Monday?”
That’s how I found myself standing in front of my closet on a Sunday night having an existential crisis about what Minneapolis would wear if Minneapolis were a person. This, friends, is the glamorous life of a fashion journalist.
I’ve spent my career covering American fashion beyond the coasts. I’ve reported from fashion weeks in Nashville, Detroit, and Atlanta. I’ve interviewed designers in St. Louis, Portland, and Austin. I’ve spent hours people-watching in malls, main streets, and dive bars across this stylistically diverse country. But distilling an entire city’s fashion identity into a single outfit? That was a different challenge entirely.
For maximum impact (and to keep myself honest), I enlisted my roommate Zach to document each look. “This is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done,” he said cheerfully, watching me panic-organize my closet by potential geographical relevance. “And I was there for the time you tried to bleach your own hair before Fashion Week.”
Day One: New York City
I decided to start with home turf—New York City. You’d think this would be the easiest, given that I actually live here, but the pressure was immense. Which New York would I channel? Finance bro Manhattan? Artsy Brooklyn? Old-money Upper East Side? After three outfit changes and a minor breakdown, I settled on what I consider quintessential NYC fashion editor: head-to-toe black (obviously), with architectural details that say “I understand proportion as a theoretical concept.”
The outfit: Black wide-leg trousers from a Japanese brand you’ve never heard of but should pretend you have; a black turtleneck that cost more than it had any right to; black ankle boots with a slightly unexpected heel; a dramatic oversized coat that’s perpetually falling off one shoulder; silver architectural jewelry that could double as a weapon in an emergency; and—the pièce de résistance—eyeglasses I don’t actually need but which make me look more intelligent in meetings.
The experience: I felt like myself, which makes sense considering I’ve absorbed New York’s fashion ethos through my pores for the past decade. The all-black ensemble let me slip through the city like a shadow—efficient, anonymous when needed, but with enough distinctive details to get approving nods from other fashion people. I got exactly zero reactions from actual New Yorkers (perfectly on-brand for the city) but received four compliments from tourists who were presumably dazzled by my commitment to monochrome.
“You just look like you always do,” observed Zach, snapping my photo as I posed dramatically against a graffitied wall in Soho.
“That’s the point,” I replied. “I’ve been method-acting New York for years.”
Day Two: Miami
I wanted a dramatic pivot from NYC’s studied coolness, so Miami felt like the perfect antithesis. If New York fashion is all about intellectual signaling and practical layers, Miami is about visceral joy, body celebration, and a total disregard for subtlety.
The outfit: A dress in a shade of hot pink so bright it was practically audible; strappy sandals with a heel height my podiatrist would definitely not approve of; oversized gold jewelry that jangled when I moved; large sunglasses despite the rain forecast; and a tiny purse that fit exactly one credit card, half a lipstick, and absolutely nothing practical. I also applied bronzer with significantly more enthusiasm than technique.
The experience: I felt like a tropical bird who had taken a wrong turn and ended up in Manhattan. Walking to the subway in 40-degree weather wearing essentially cocktail attire with no coat was a special kind of torture that had me questioning my journalistic integrity. Every surface of the MTA felt exponentially grimier when experienced through the lens of Miami dress code. The color of my outfit against the gray April sky created a contrast so severe it was almost offensive.
The reactions, however, were fascinating. People smiled at me—actual unprompted smiles from strangers in New York City. A woman in the elevator at work told me I was “a ray of sunshine.” Three separate people asked me if I was going to a party. My usual barista, who has never once commented on my appearance in three years of daily coffee transactions, said “Wow” when I walked in, then looked embarrassed about breaking our tacit agreement to acknowledge each other only through coffee-related exchanges.
“You look insane, but in a good way,” said Zach, documenting my outfit. “Like you’re ready to salsa dance at 10 AM on a Tuesday.”
“Miami doesn’t believe in appropriate timing for salsa dancing,” I replied, with more confidence than I felt while shivering at the bus stop.
Day Three: Nashville
For Nashville, I wanted to honor both the city’s country music heritage and its current status as a fashion-forward creative hub. Modern Nashville style is a fascinating blend of Americana references, vintage finds, and unexpected modernity—less rhinestone cowgirl, more Reese Witherspoon meets rock star.
The outfit: Vintage high-waisted jeans that I’d deliberately distressed in specific places; a white t-shirt knotted at the waist; a tailored denim jacket with embroidered details; suede ankle boots with a stacked heel that clacked satisfyingly when I walked; a turquoise statement necklace with a pendant the size of a small appetizer plate; and my hair teased to a volume that could only be described as “assertive.”
The experience: This outfit was shockingly practical for New York life—comfortable, layered appropriately for the weather, with pockets big enough for my phone and wallet. I felt like I was cheating somehow. The real Nashville touch was in the details—the quality of the denim, the intentionality of the accessories, the way everything looked casually thrown together but was actually carefully coordinated.
The reactions were subtle but positive. A woman in line at the coffee shop asked where I’d found my jacket. A colleague mentioned I looked “different, but cute.” I received knowing nods from a group of women at a nearby table during lunch, all of whom were similarly dressed in what I can only describe as “elevated casualwear with a hint of Western influence.”
“You actually look normal today,” said Zach when I got home. “Like you might know how to change a tire.”
“I absolutely do not know how to change a tire,” I replied. “But I appreciate that this outfit suggests practical skills I don’t possess.”
Day Four: San Francisco
For San Francisco, I wanted to capture the city’s unique blend of tech casual, outdoor readiness, and understated wealth. It’s a city where a hoodie might cost $400, where practicality reigns supreme, and where innovative textiles are appreciated more than flashy logos.
The outfit: High-performance leggings made from a technical fabric that promised to regulate my body temperature, wick moisture, and possibly solve climate change; a cashmere hoodie in a muted earth tone; a vest with an obscene number of pockets; minimalist sneakers from a sustainable startup; a smartwatch conspicuously displayed on my wrist; and a sleek backpack with compartments for every possible electronic device despite the fact that I was only carrying chapstick and an old receipt.
The experience: I was alarmingly comfortable. The outfit moved with me, adjusted to temperature changes throughout the day, and provided storage solutions I didn’t know I needed. I found myself standing with better posture and walking more purposefully, as if I might need to suddenly hike up a steep hill or join an impromptu coding session.
The reactions were mixed. My more fashion-forward colleagues seemed confused by the deliberate casualness of the look. My friend who works in tech recognized the specific technical features of the clothing and gave approving nods. A barista asked if I was “in town for a conference,” which I took as confirmation that I’d nailed the San Francisco business traveler aesthetic.
“You look like you’re about to explain cryptocurrency to me without me asking,” observed Zach.
“I could definitely convince someone I know what an algorithm is in this outfit,” I agreed.
Day Five: New Orleans
For my final day, I wanted to channel a city known for its expressive, joyful approach to personal style. New Orleans fashion embodies a unique blend of historical references, cultural pride, multiple influences, and a certain theatrical quality that feels appropriate for a city where the line between everyday life and celebration is delightfully blurred.
The outfit: A vintage-inspired dress in a deep emerald green with a silhouette that nodded to the 1940s; stacked bracelets that created music when I moved my arms; comfortable but stylish shoes I could theoretically dance in; a scarf tied in my hair for a touch of drama; layered necklaces including one with an antique key pendant; and makeup that was slightly more dramatic than my everyday look, with defined eyes and a bold lip.
The experience: This outfit required confidence. It wasn’t weird enough to qualify as costume, but it was definitely more expressive than standard New York daywear. The silhouette felt feminine in a way I don’t usually lean into, and the colors were richer and more vibrant than my typical palette. I felt like a character in a Tennessee Williams play, but in a good way.
The reactions were overwhelmingly positive. I received more compliments this day than all other days combined. A woman stopped me on the street to ask about my dress. My normally reserved boss told me I looked “radiant.” Even the security guard in our building, who has never once commented on a tenant’s appearance in all the years I’ve worked there, gave me an approving nod.
“You look happy,” said Zach when he took my photo that evening. It wasn’t a comment about the clothes specifically, but he was right. There was something liberating about embracing a style that prioritized joy and expressiveness over the calculated coolness I usually aim for.
The experiment concluded, I sat down to analyze what I’d learned about American regional style identities—and about myself as someone who’s built a career writing about fashion.
The first revelation was how much our clothes affect not just how others perceive us, but how we move through the world. In my Miami outfit, I gestured more when I spoke. In my San Francisco look, I walked faster and stood straighter. In my New Orleans ensemble, I made more eye contact and smiled more freely. It wasn’t just cosplay; the clothes were actually shifting my behavior in subtle but meaningful ways.
The second insight was about American fashion diversity. Each city has developed its own sartorial language in response to specific cultural influences, climate needs, economic factors, and local values. New York style reflects our packed subway cars and competitive career environments. Miami fashion speaks to a culture that celebrates the body and social connection. Nashville’s aesthetic honors tradition while embracing change. San Francisco style solves problems with technical innovation. New Orleans fashion tells stories through color and movement.
But the most personal revelation was about my own relationship with fashion. As someone who writes about clothes professionally, I sometimes get caught in particular thought patterns about what constitutes “good style.” This experiment forced me to step outside my safety zone and recognize the validity of fashion expressions that aren’t naturally my own. The San Francisco outfit would never have made it into my regular rotation, but I can’t deny how perfectly it served its purpose. The Miami look made me uncomfortable, but it also made people smile—which has its own kind of value.
American fashion isn’t monolithic, and it’s richer for that diversity. As we navigate conversations about globalization and the homogenization of style, it’s worth remembering and celebrating these regional identities that persist despite our increasingly connected world.
As for which city’s style I’ll be incorporating more into my regular wardrobe? I’m still a New Yorker through and through—you’ll pry my black turtlenecks from my cold, dead hands. But I’ve kept the emerald dress in my regular rotation. Sometimes even fashion editors need to be reminded that style at its best isn’t just about looking appropriate or on-trend—it’s about feeling radiantly, unapologetically alive in your clothes. New Orleans taught me that, and it’s a lesson worth remembering.