Highest Fade

From the Editors at Highest Fade

It wasn't a dare.

It wasn't a stunt.

It was, if I'm honest, a quiet act of self-respect.

The weather app said 92 degrees. The air outside said don't.

But the mirror said yes.

And so I did.

I wore a black cotton turtleneck — full collar, no apologies — on a Tuesday morning in July.

The Why

There are seasons of weather, and there are seasons of being. I was in the latter. A strange in-between. Not quite broken, not quite building — the kind of mental humidity that makes one crave structure.

I'd been wearing loose linen for weeks. Light colors. Soft silhouettes. I had become easy to look at and hard to define — and it was starting to feel like erasure.

I missed sharpness. I missed edge.

I missed feeling like I was dressed to defend something.

And so, I did what any mentally stable man would do:

I pulled a turtleneck from the back of my winter drawer, held it to my cheek like a forgotten friend, and said, "We ride at dawn."

The Fit

The turtleneck in question is nothing special — no label to brag about, no cashmere-blend alibi. Just black cotton. Fitted, but forgiving. The collar folds once and stays there, like it knows it belongs.

I paired it with light wool trousers (why stop now?) and vintage Italian loafers, no socks. Minimalist watch. Air of defiance. Deodorant layered, not applied.

And then I walked out into the sun.

The Heat

By block three, I had become a sweat-based organism.

There are forms of perspiration that signal exertion. Then there are the quiet, creeping beads that suggest your body is confused. My lower back began transmitting distress signals. My collar took on the scent of antique cologne and new mistakes.

At the crosswalk, a man in gym shorts looked at me like I'd brought a saxophone to a fistfight.

I gave him a polite nod, as if to say, "Correct. This is discipline, not comfort. You wouldn't understand."

He looked away.

The Looks

Let's be honest — the turtleneck did things.

Women glanced. Men averted. Dogs paused. There is something unnerving about someone dressed for autumn in the thick of summer. It's not rebellion. It's not style. It's certainty, and that scares people.

In the café, a barista asked, "Aren't you hot?"

I replied, "Not in the ways that matter."

He blinked. I tipped him 40%.

The Philosophy

Wearing a turtleneck in July isn't just a fashion choice. It's a statement about permanence in a world of melt. A refusal to let the atmosphere dictate who I am.

There are people who wake up and say, "What will the weather let me be today?"

I wake up and ask, "What will I allow the weather to do while I remain myself?"

Yes, I was overheating.

Yes, I carried a small hand towel tucked discreetly in my leather tote.

But I also carried conviction. And sometimes that's heavier than the sweat.

The Collapse

At approximately 1:47 PM, my body began to bargain.

There was a moment — just a moment — where I leaned against the marble sink in the men's room of a co-working space and whispered, "What are we doing?" to my own reflection.

My armpits had become existential zones. The collar was moist with regret. My pupils dilated not from caffeine, but belief fatigue.

And yet — I did not remove the turtleneck.

I adjusted it. Smoothed it. Dabbed gently with the towel. And returned to my desk.

Because a man doesn't un-choose a turtleneck midday.

He dies in it, or he goes home a hero.

The Lesson

There's a kind of madness required to maintain personal form when the world around you is melting. A commitment to self that transcends reason.

That's what the turtleneck gave me that day. Not comfort. Not cool. But clarity. It reminded me that ease is not the same as elegance. That heat is temporary, but tone is forever.

You want to dress for the job you want?

Try dressing for the season you refuse to surrender to.

The Aftermath

That night, I showered for 26 minutes. I used a loofah I forgot I owned. I sat in a towel and stared at the wall for longer than I care to admit.

But when I folded that turtleneck and placed it back in the drawer — still warm, slightly heroic — I knew I had crossed some invisible line.

The kind that makes you a little worse to be around.

The kind that makes you stronger.