I’m not a rich man. I make do. But if there’s one thing I’ve always had in abundance, it’s a sense of style—and a longing to express myself through fashion.
As a child, I was captivated by the elegance of those I saw on screen—actors, actresses, runway icons. In high school, I was utterly devoted to supermodels like Linda Evangelista, Cindy Crawford, Naomi Campbell. I hoarded magazines like Vogue, GQ, Cosmopolitan, rifling through the glossy pages, dreaming of what it would be like to wear such clothes. Fashion, for me, wasn’t about brands or money. It was about transformation, self-expression, imagination.
Over the years, I cultivated an instinct. I can look at someone and tell whether what they’re wearing works—whether the clothes complement their body, their spirit. Friends come to me in moments of style crisis. What top goes with what bottoms? Which shoes balance a jacket? What accessory lifts an outfit into something unforgettable? I find joy in helping them—and I’ve extended that styling instinct to my family as well.
My sister doesn’t quite agree with my flamboyant, Western, modern aesthetic. But my mother does. I’ve been styling her for years, and it’s something we share and delight in. I suppose being a homosexual man has brought with it a sensitivity to aesthetics—an eye for detail, a yearning for beauty that sits slightly outside the norm.
But here’s the paradox: while I can style others with ease, when it comes to myself—particularly for significant occasions like my birthday—I find it exasperating. I imagine the outfit in my head with utter clarity. I can see the drape, the silhouette, the movement of fabric in the light. And yet, somehow, the final product never quite captures what I saw in my mind.
Take this year’s birthday, for instance. The theme is white. I had envisioned a pristine tuxedo—a well-fitted white suit with a wingtip collared shirt, a shawl-collared vest, a sequinned white tie, sleek trousers, and the kind of presence that turns heads. I had it tailored. I spent good money. But when I wore it, it felt wrong. Lifeless. Not me.
So I returned to the drawing board, reimagining something oversized, flowing—a dreamy, dramatic white ensemble with a mid-thigh-length sequinned shirt, an open vest, and wide trousers. It was meant to be poetic, airy, and opulent. I didn’t find the silver shoes I wanted, so I settled on a bold red pair and for back-up (I loved the shoes!) a shiny gold one. But again, when I wore the outfit, something felt off. Not terrible, not hideous. Just not quite the vision I had carried in my heart.
And this is where it becomes difficult—fashioning dreams into reality when funds are limited. The cloth costs a bomb. Tailoring costs more. And there’s no going back once it’s stitched. Unlike prêt-à-porter, where you see, try, and buy, tailor-made clothes require you to visualise, communicate, and gamble.
Maybe I’m still learning how fabric falls. Maybe I struggle to translate vision into language for the tailor. But it breaks my heart when I fail to materialise what I imagined.
Still, I persevere. I don’t create to impress others. I dress for the mirror—for the moment when I look at myself and think, Yes. That’s the man I want to be. That’s the man I see in my mind’s eye.
It’s not about vanity. It’s about honouring the person I am, the artist within me, the child who once dreamed in magazine spreads. I want my 50th birthday to reflect who I’ve become. Not perfect. But honest. Eccentric. Elegant. Me.
And yes, perhaps people do laugh sometimes. Maybe they always will. But I’ve learnt—especially now, as I near 50—that their opinion isn’t the point. If I can look at myself and feel beautiful, powerful, present—then that’s enough. More than enough.
So back to the drawing board I go. One week to go. And this time, I trust I’ll get there.
Because at the heart of it, fashion—like life—isn’t about having it all. It’s about creating beauty with what you have, daring to imagine more, and showing up in the world as exactly who you are.
Hearts Still Care 