I cut colour from my wardrobe and I haven’t had a meltdown since

“It was the sartorial equivalent of a juice cleanse.”

Five years ago, I sold nearly every piece of coloured clothing I owned at a secondhand market. At the time it felt radical, a kind of sartorial asceticism. But drastic times called for drastic measures.  

Life before cutting colour was a constant stream of returns and one-wear wonders. It wasn’t uncommon for me to buy something on impulse, wear it that evening and resent it before the Uber pulled up. Pre-event meltdowns – crying amid a graveyard of failed outfits with ‘nothing to wear’ – became so routine I started budgeting time for them before leaving the house.

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The final straw came in the form of an itchy jumper in an aggressive shade of green, bought under the illusion that it would be ‘good for work’. It wasn’t. That jumper triggered a rash and an existential crisis.

Nauseated by the sight of my own wardrobe, I knew something had to give. A friend told me about a local rent-a-rack market where you could sell your entire wardrobe over two weeks. It was the sartorial equivalent of a juice cleanse – borderline extreme and questionably effective in solving the issue at hand. Naturally, I booked a spot the next day. 

I opened my wardrobe and ruthlessly divided its contents into two piles: ‘keep’ and ‘sell’. I edited pieces based on how often I wore them, how much I loved them and any sentimental value they held. Looking at the two piles before me, it suddenly became obvious: I hate wearing colour.

Looking back, the sentiment tracks. At age seven, I started blacking out my nails with a Sharpie and refusing to wear anything but black (I wasn’t trying to be dramatic, I just knew what I liked and it definitely wasn’t lavender). My mum, to her credit, didn’t fight it. 

But as I got older and my social calendar grew, so did my need for eventwear. I quickly learnt bright dresses and obnoxious prints could do the work for me. Of course, I think that some vibrant clothes are objectively beautiful (Zimmermann’s collections are quite literally wearable joy) but this was a lazy act of styling on my part. Buying a great dress is easy, finding your own style is not.

After my two weeks on the rent-a-rack were up, I came home to a colourless closet. Armed with newfound clarity, I toyed with keeping my wardrobe monochromatic but my mind wandered to all the pieces I’d be missing. After a week-long heated debate with myself, I decided to trial staying colour-free in the restock and maybe for the foreseeable future. What’s the worst that could happen? I’d get bored? The beauty was, if I truly missed colour, I could always bring it back. After all, it was a choice, not a summons. 

Over several months, I began to rebuild. Blacks, browns, creams, neutrals, greys, khaki and denim were in. Everything else was out. Relearning to shop during those first few months proved easier than expected. I walked into stores with a clear plan, quickly scanning shelves for the tones of my choosing. Without hues to hide behind, I found myself fixated on fabric, fit and silhouette. I learned to distinguish what I admired from what I actually wanted to wear. 

Looking at my wardrobe and myself afresh, I realised the age-old gripe of ‘a closet full of clothes and nothing to wear’ wasn’t about quantity, it was an innate disconnect between want and wearability. Before I knew it, my decision to eliminate colour had me exercising restraint in nearly all facets of life. I became militant about the pieces that entered my home and wardrobe. If something wasn’t getting worn, it was getting sold. Packing became enjoyable, taking half the time and half the suitcase space. The best part? I haven’t had a pre-event meltdown in years. 

Five years on, the closest I come to colour remains a baby blue Oxford shirt. Of course, there have been times I’ve had to relent for a dress code, a theme, or the odd ‘pop of colour’ plea. While it’s never the end of the world, it does make me feel genuinely uncomfortable. 

Fran Lebowitz, the New York writer known as much for her sartorialism as her sardonicism, perhaps put it best: “I feel most comfortable in the things I wear and that’s why I wear them.”  Somewhere between black, bone and ecru, I discovered a true sense of what it means to feel comfortable. 

Still, finding that sense took time. I’d tried wardrobe overhauls before, each more misguided than the last. The difference this time was that nothing about my decision was aspirational, I simply chose to only buy and wear what I like the most. It goes without saying, I don’t think people who wear colour look bad. Like anyone with a genuine love of clothes, I’ll always appreciate craftsmanship and creativity. My decision to abandon colour was inherently personal, it felt less like a choice and more like a natural inclination. 

I still sometimes get bored with what’s in my wardrobe but the culprit is rarely colour. It’s usually the sameness, like my countless iterations of black pants (no one needs to own this many). It’s only natural to fixate on what you might be missing when choosing to cut something out. But looking at it from a different perspective, elimination isn’t necessarily synonymous with lack. There’s real joy to be found in less. 

Who knows whether I’ll choose to stay colour-free forever. Perhaps not. Like most people, I’m sure my style will continue to evolve as I do. That said, there’s nothing wrong with knowing what you like. What began as a decision as seemingly unserious as cutting colour led to serious development in my behaviour as a consumer – and my bank account!

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