Cleveland Dress Code

Dockers? Check. Golf shirt? Check. Browns jersey? Check.
You're Cleveland-ready.

When I moved back to Cleveland from New York over 25 years ago, I was unimpressed — and often nauseated — by how the men here dressed. 

Many women did not fare so well, either. I recently encountered the description “flyover frump” by a cutting New York Times critic, and I knew exactly what he meant. But my focus here is on my own gender and its sartorial failings.

GQ, an authority on men's dressing, rates Cleveland as the 30th worst-dressed city in America, which is quite generous for a town whose men barely lurch toward presentability. (According to GQ, Boston men are the worst-dressed in the country (it's all those students), whereas, unsurprisingly, New York tops almost every best-dressed list I can find.)

Cleveland — and I suspect this is true of other Midwestern cities — is a land of Dockers, golf shirts, and football jerseys. For God’s sake, put on a freaking sport coat or sweater, don’t wear Browns gear to dinner (or ever, unless you play for them), and enough with the shorts, sandals, and even flip-flops in nice restaurants. You know who you are.

Barneys New York

Back in 1997, being accustomed to outfitting myself at the late, great Barneys, I announced my intention to continue procuring my wardrobe in New York even though I no longer lived there. My mother told me this was ridiculous and urged me to get a (new) life. (Ironically, Cleveland once had a Barneys, but I lived in New York at the time.) 

Nowadays, one of Cleveland's swankest eateries, The Marble Room, seems worried someone might show up for a $300 steak wearing dark socks and loafers with Bermuda shorts. The restaurant's website preemptively links to a long essay about how poorly the city's men attire themselves. 

But even in Cleveland, there are oases of nice dressing among the horrifically attired. You do not need to go to The Marble Room to see men forfeit their Browns gear for something suave.

J3 Clothing in Moreland Hills

As for me, I may not be best-dressed list material, but I am exceptionally lucky to have a go-to advisor at J3 Clothing right down the street. I have been working with the guys from J3 for decades, and popping into their convivial haberdashery is like checking in with friends who happen to be style senseis. These gents (plus the wonderful Cheryl) are all warm and personable, and it always feels good to swing by there.

Joe Paster

When I determined earlier this year that I wanted to overhaul my look, Joe Paster, one of the “J’s” in J3, rose to the occasion. He visited my home, sat at my kitchen table to talk concepts, and then went through my closet to help me identify garments that fit my desired aesthetic and those that had outlived these aims. It was a style audit without the faintest whiff of a pending transaction.

You don’t get that kind of service from a store that sells Dockers. Hell, I never got that kind of service from Barneys back in the day.

Now, I am humming along with my preferred palette of black, grey, and navy and mostly solid shirts. Joe Paster has a commanding sense of what I own, what I like, and how to keep me there. He knows I still want to look like a New Yorker, and what that means. He also understands fit and great tailoring in a way I never will. 

I may not be as debonair as my husband, but one does what one can with what he is given. 

Between Joe, my husband, and Joe from J3, my two oracular advisors, I would never go to the chichi Marble Room looking like a Cleveland chump or blending in with the flyover frumps.

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