So I made this completely ridiculous bet at a dinner party three years ago, and honestly? It changed how I think about wardrobes more than any other experiment I’ve done. And trust me, I’ve tried a lot of wardrobe experiments over the years – comes with the territory when you’re constantly overthinking what you own.
The whole thing started because my friend Dave was complaining about decision fatigue. You know Dave – perpetually late because he’s tried on seven different shirts. “I waste like forty-five minutes every morning just figuring out what to wear,” he’s saying, three drinks deep. “Maybe I should just go black and white for a year, like some kind of monk or whatever.”
His girlfriend immediately calls BS. “You wouldn’t last three days.”
And then I hear myself saying, “I bet I could do it.” The whiskey was definitely talking at this point.
The whole table goes quiet. Dave’s girlfriend squints at me like I’ve just claimed I can fly. “You? Ruth? You literally wrote that blog post about why navy isn’t actually neutral.” She wasn’t wrong – I had strong opinions about color back then.
“Exactly why it’d be interesting,” I doubled down, already regretting opening my mouth but too stubborn to back down. “Ultimate minimalism experiment.”
Twenty minutes later I’d somehow committed to twelve months of zero color. Black, white, and every shade of gray in between. That was it. No navy (which honestly hurt the most since that was basically my uniform color), no earth tones, definitely no fun stuff. My girlfriend at the time thought I’d lost my mind, but in that supportive way where she’s clearly planning to say “I told you so” in about two weeks.
The prep phase was brutal. I spent an entire weekend going through my closet, packing away anything with even a hint of color. Took everything to my parents’ place in Sacramento, vacuum-sealed like I was storing artifacts or something. My mom kept asking if I was having some kind of breakdown. “It’s just an experiment, Mom.” She looked skeptical.
Day one, I’m standing in front of what used to be a pretty colorful closet and now looked like… well, like a tech guy’s closet, honestly. Black jeans, white button-down, gray sweater, black sneakers. Took me maybe thirty seconds to get dressed. Walking out the door, I felt this weird lightness – like one less thing to worry about, you know?
First week was all explanations. Everyone kept asking if I was okay, apparently concerned I’d joined a cult or was going through some kind of crisis. The guy at my regular coffee shop was like, “New aesthetic?” When I explained the experiment, he just nodded. “So you’re basically Steve Jobs now. Got it.”
That comparison followed me everywhere. Apparently there are only two ways people read “guy in all black and white” – either visionary tech CEO or unemployed artist. No middle ground.
But here’s what got weird. After about three weeks, I started noticing textures and fits in ways I never had before. When you take color out of the equation, suddenly everything else becomes super important. The difference between a smooth cotton and a textured knit. How light hits different black fabrics. Whether your pants actually fit properly or you’ve just been distracted by the color all this time.
I became obsessed with getting the proportions exactly right. When everything’s the same color family, silhouette is all you’ve got to work with. Started buying wider cuts, more interesting shapes, just to keep things from being boring. My tailor José started greeting me with “Another black one?” but he got into it too. “When it’s monochrome, every detail matters,” he’d say while pinning yet another pair of black pants.
A month in, people at work started treating me differently. More seriously, somehow. I’d always been “the guy who writes about clothes” but suddenly I’m getting asked about actual engineering decisions, project timelines, budget stuff. Was I more competent, or just presenting as more serious? Either way, interesting data point.
The social stuff got really strange. Dating was… an experience. My profile photos now looked like I was auditioning for The Matrix reboot. Some people found it intriguing – one woman told me the uniform thing was “kind of hot actually.” Others found it concerning. One woman unmatched after telling me I reminded her of a serial killer from some documentary she’d watched. Cool.
Three months in, the practical challenges hit. Wine tasting with coworkers (terrifying – red wine and white shirts don’t mix). Dinner with my parents where Mom made her famous marinara (disaster waiting to happen). A friend’s wedding where thankfully the dress code was “creative black tie” so I accidentally nailed it, though the bride later admitted she’d worried I’d make her photos look like a funeral.
Laundry became this whole thing. Simpler because everything sorted into just two loads, but harder because maintaining true black through repeated washing is basically impossible. By month four I had like seven different shades of “black” in my closet, from new purchases still deep and inky to older stuff that had faded to charcoal. Became fanatical about cold water, special detergents, hang-drying everything.
Traveling though? Game changer. Packing for a week-long work trip took ten minutes and fit in a carry-on with room left over. Everything matched everything else by default. No more “what if I need options” overpacking. The mental freedom was genuinely surprising – one less thing to stress about when you’re already dealing with flights and hotels and presentation slides.
Six months in, I realized something unexpected had happened. I wasn’t feeling restricted – I was feeling liberated. Getting dressed had become so automatic I’d gained back hours every week. Not just the time physically trying stuff on, but the mental energy spent considering options. I started using those morning minutes for actual breakfast instead of grabbing coffee on the run. My stress levels dropped noticeably.
The money part was huge too. After the initial investment in quality basics, my clothing spending dropped by like 70%. No colorful seasonal pieces calling my name, no “this would be perfect with that blue jacket” justifications. My credit card statement looked healthier than it had in years. I redirected some of that money toward better quality in what I did buy – spent three times my normal amount on a cashmere sweater that’ll last five times as long.
But around month eight, the monotony started getting to me. Fall hit San Francisco, and for the first time since college I couldn’t participate in the whole seasonal color shift. The city’s turning golden and I’m still stubbornly monochromatic. Felt isolating in a way I hadn’t expected – like refusing to acknowledge the seasons themselves.
During a weekend trip to Sacramento, I snuck down to my parents’ basement and opened one of the vacuum bags. Just to look, you know? Held up this burnt orange cardigan I’d loved and genuinely felt something like grief. Mom caught me red-handed. “Just wear it for the weekend,” she said. “Who’s gonna know?” The temptation was real, but I sealed it back up. Eight months in seemed like the worst possible time to cheat.
The social impact got more pronounced at holiday parties. I became “the black and white guy” – like that was my most interesting personality trait now. People would introduce me by explaining the experiment before mentioning my name or job. At one party, someone asked if it was “performance art or something.” Another person, pretty drunk, accused me of “trying too hard to be interesting by being boring.” That one stung because… maybe there was some truth there?
Work events were weird too. Always looked appropriate, but in a tech/startup world where everyone’s trying to show personality through their clothes, I looked like I’d given up. “Interesting choice for someone who writes about style,” one investor commented at a networking thing. “Very… minimalist.” Had to work twice as hard to show personality in other ways.
As month twelve approached, I got this unexpected anxiety about going back to color. The constraints had become comfortable. The thought of standing in front of a full-spectrum closet again was honestly intimidating. Would I remember how to put outfits together? Had my color sense atrophied?
The final day fell on a Tuesday. Woke up early, weirdly emotional about the transition. For my last monochromatic outfit, I chose my favorites – black selvedge jeans that had molded to my body over twelve months, white Oxford that had been washed to perfect softness, black cashmere sweater with subtle texture. Took one last mirror selfie and headed to work.
My girlfriend had organized this ridiculous “color release party” at a bar after work – partly joking, partly because she thought it’d make good content. Friends brought absurdly colorful gifts: tie-dyed hoodie, Hawaiian shirt that looked like a parrot explosion, bright red socks. I promised to wear each thing at least once, though the thought of all that visual noise made me anxious.
Next morning, standing in front of my reunited closet with all the exiled colors back where they belonged. Reached for a navy sweater – my old reliable, my comfort zone – and paired it with black jeans. Baby steps back into color. Caught myself smiling in the mirror.
So what did I actually learn? More than I bargained for, honestly. The practical benefits were real – less decision fatigue, time savings, way less spending, better appreciation for quality and fit. I figured out which pieces in my wardrobe actually earn their keep versus which were just taking up space.
But the social and psychological stuff was more complex. How we dress affects not just how others see us but how we see ourselves. My personality didn’t change, but how I presented it did, and that influenced every interaction. Made me realize how much I’d been using clothing as nonverbal communication, and limiting that vocabulary changed the conversations I was having.
Would I recommend this to other people? Maybe for a month, not a full year. Just long enough to break some habits and gain awareness, not so long that it becomes an identity. Because that was the weird trap – around month six, being “black and white guy” shifted from something I was doing to something I was. The simplification meant to free me from thinking about clothes resulted in thinking about them constantly, just differently.
It’s been almost two years since I finished the experiment. My wardrobe’s still mostly neutral, with color playing supporting roles instead of starring. I shop way less but much more intentionally. And yeah, that burnt orange cardigan is back in regular rotation. Some things are just meant to be.
The biggest takeaway? Constraints can be liberating, but they can also become prisons if you’re not careful. The sweet spot is probably somewhere between my old rainbow chaos and the year of monochrome. These days I aim for intentional simplicity rather than arbitrary restriction. Turns out there’s a difference.
Ruth lives in San Francisco and swears by “fewer, better things.” His posts explore minimalist wardrobes, quality basics, and dressing intentionally without turning fashion into clutter. Practical, efficient, and quietly stylish—just like his closet.
