Men in Sweaters: A Brief History of Men Who Think Knitwear Is Depth

Unless you're part of the Dead Poet's Society, you probably shouldn't wear a sweater, a tweed jacket or a turtleneck. Good god, not a turtleneck!

This is not a fashion opinion so much as a public service announcement. A civic duty. A literary safety notice posted on the corkboard of your local independent bookstore, right between the flyer for a banned books read-in and the handwritten sign that says "Please stop reshelving books incorrectly. We see you."

Somewhere along the way, men—specifically men who own at least one hardcover copy of any Raymond Chandler novel—decided sweaters were a personality. Not a garment. A thesis statement.

And listen. I understand the impulse. You want to look thoughtful. Professorial. Like a man who casually quotes Pushkin while waiting for his oat-milk cortado. You want women to assume you have opinions about Neoclassicism and iambic tetrameter. You want to signal: I read. I feel. I have a complicated relationship with my father.

But what you are actually signaling is: I am about to mansplain Russian literature to you while touching the spine of a book you are holding.

Let's break this down.

The Sweater Problem

The sweater, especially the chunky, cable-knit variety, suggests a man who believes vulnerability is best expressed through knitwear. He is emotionally unavailable but seasonally prepared. He has opinions about fountain pens. He will tell you he "doesn't really watch TV" but somehow knows every episode of Succession.

This man is not cold. He is curated.

The sweater says, I long for intimacy, but only the kind that happens during a power outage, by candlelight, while discussing Kierkegaard.

Tweed: A Cry for Help

Ah yes. Tweed. The fabric equivalent of a midlife crisis that thinks it's an intellectual awakening.

Tweed is what happens when a man confuses having tenure with having a personality. It smells faintly of pipe tobacco, regret, and a syllabus no one asked for. Tweed men do not ask questions. They lecture. Casually. Over wine. That they brought themselves. Because they "know a guy."

If you are under 70 and wearing tweed, I assume one of two things: you are auditioning for the role of "Professor Who Sleeps with Students but Calls It a Connection," or you own a leather-bound journal you do not write in.

And Then There's the Turtleneck

No.

No, no, no.

A turtleneck is a threat. A turtleneck is what happens when confidence and delusion form a writers' collective. It is aggressively intimate. It climbs the neck like it's trying to silence you before you say something incriminating.

The man in a turtleneck believes he is magnetic. He believes women find him mysterious. He believes the phrase "intellectual foreplay" is charming.

It is not.

A turtleneck says: I will stare at you across a dimly lit bar and ask what you think about mortality before learning your last name.

The Bookstore Test

Here is my rule: if your outfit could plausibly get you mistaken for staff at a bookstore, you need to reconsider your choices. If customers might ask you where the poetry section is, you have gone too far.

Clothing should not imply that you are emotionally complex and available for office hours.

What You Should Wear Instead

I am not saying men cannot be cozy. I am not anti-warmth. I am anti-performative academia.

Wear a jacket that suggests you exist in the real world. Wear shoes that indicate you leave the house for reasons other than literary panel discussions. Wear something that says, I enjoy books, not I write books that require a glossary, a compass and mild emotional resilience.

Because reading is attractive, curiosity is attractive, literary acumen is attractive. But dressing like a footnote is not.

And if you absolutely must wear a sweater? Make it clear you're wearing it because you're cold. Not because you're trying to be remembered.

See you in the margins,

  --Bookstore Geek