Style, status, and the quiet death of subtlety.
Let’s talk about how two zip codes taught me more about fashion and self-worth than a decade of personal growth books ever could.
See, when I lived in the Bay, I got compliments. Real ones. The kind that clock the lapel pin, the clean break of a tailored pant, the soft flex of an Omega peeking under a cuff. I wasn’t overdoing it—I was just noticed. Subtlety mattered. You didn’t need your outfit to scream; a whisper did the trick.
On the weekdays, my suits were sharp, well-fitted, and undeniably mine. People at work knew me as the stylish one. It wasn’t loud—it was intentional. Tie bar aligned with the gig line. Lapel pin. Shoes always immaculate. My style said something without having to explain it.
Even on weekends, it was the same rhythm, different beat. Casual, but elevated. Sneaker collabs. Limited drops. Niche streetwear brands with no logo but all the right detail. People noticed. Not because the brands were famous—but because they weren’t.
Then I moved to LA. I kept my suit game exactly the same—Bay standards intact—and it still turned heads. Clean cuts, tailored fit, the details dialed in. But what I noticed was how others around me wore their suits. Expensive? Sure. Tailored, yes, but often over-styled or cut for someone else’s silhouette. But style isn’t bought—it’s built. And here, too many looked like mannequins for trends rather than men with presence.
As for the casual side, suddenly my once trend approved fits barely registered. My limited collabs? B-tier. My once-hard-to-find frames? Standard issue. It felt like everyone had a “guy” who could get the rarest drop overnight—like there was a sale at Costco on exclusivity. LA fashion is less about fit and more about being seen—whether the clothes flatter you or not.
It wasn’t just the clothes. It was the display of it all. Fashion as identity. Brand as personality. I went from feeling stylish to feeling invisible—like the old guy waiting in line outside the club, wondering if his shoes were still cool enough to get past the rope.
What It Says About the Cities
In the Bay, the car didn’t need to be Italian. A clean BMW with flawless paint and well-kept wheels turned heads. Style was understated. Cool was casual. You showed up with clean lines and kind manners, and people noticed. Smiles were real. Compliments were thoughtful.
In LA, manners are a liability. Holding the door gets you an eye roll, not a thank you. Your barista sizes you up like you’re a brand deal that fell through. That limited-edition piece you hunted for? Old news—unless it was released yesterday and featured in a celebrity’s airport photo.
Polite people look poor. Waiting your turn looks weak. It’s not about who you are—it’s about who you’re wearing, who you know, and who you’re trying to be seen with. The entire city feels like it’s auditioning for a part, and the wardrobe department is running overtime.
Getting Personal
It took me a while to find my footing. My friends in the Bay—outside of my inner circle—now call me “Hollywood.” Some even say I’ve gone bougie. I used to push back. Now I just laugh.
What’s funny is that here in LA, I’ve actually started enjoying not standing out. There’s something powerful about blending in when you know you could turn heads. Watching others do the most while you sip your overpriced coffee in silence—it’s like people-watching turned into a sport.
I’m not above it. I’m just not addicted to it. And that shift—of feeling FOMO, then watching it dissolve—is one of the most freeing transitions I’ve made since leaving the Bay.
Style as Substance (Or Not)
Both cities have their influencers. Both have their clout-chasers. But here’s where I’ve found consistency: my approach works in both places. Because I’ve never needed the spotlight to be seen.
While others broadcast their brand loyalty, I play the long game. I’d rather leave breadcrumbs than drop a pin. Let the details emerge slowly. Mystery always outlasts spectacle.
Because when you give people too much too soon, they’ll start counting—your money, your status, your worth. But when you leave some of it behind the curtain, you force them to actually see you. Not your net worth. Not your tags.
My grandfather used to say, “Never count another man’s money.” It stuck. And it shaped how I move. I don’t dress to impress—I dress because I have my own preference. The kind that doesn’t need validation.
And if you can strip it all down—remove the logo, the car, the table you’re sitting at—you’ll find out quickly who’s there because of you. Do you laugh together? Do you learn from each other? Or are you just props in each other’s highlight reels?
What’s Next?
I’m still adjusting. Still experimenting. Still finding the balance between staying true and staying aware. But what I’ve learned is this: I don’t need to play the game to prove I could win it.
There are still people in both cities who move with grace. Quiet wealth. Good manners. The kind your grandmother would approve of. There are also the ones who walk into a room and need everyone to know they’ve arrived.
But as I settle further into LA, I’m starting to enjoy the back row. The role of the background player who could afford the spotlight—but doesn’t need it.
I’ll dress for me. You can decide if that’s enough.
Call to Action:
How does your city influence how you dress—or who you become? Do you perform for the crowd or move for yourself?
Drop your thoughts in the comments. Flex quietly. Or don’t. Just don’t be the guy calculating status from across the room. That game’s tired.
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