Perhaps many kindergartners listen to Post Malone from the comfort of their car seats. But my son, Charlie, was precocious in other ways too. At the tender age of four, he gave up Blue’s Clues and started surfing. He began using unexpected punctuation in his speech patterns: “Gimme a chocolate muffin, bro!”
Most dismayingly of all, he banished the skinny corduroy pants and flannel button-downs I had so lovingly procured at Crewcuts and developed an irrepressible loyalty to Carhartt, Kith, and any obscure surf and skateboard brand out of Southern California.
My husband and I let this fly, thinking it was a phase. After all, the poor kid’s parents are into Barbour and Birkenstocks. I tried to capitalize on this cultural engagement by taking him to see Bob Dylan perform at the Beacon Theatre, but by first grade, he declared Dylan “deadly” and moved on to someone called Marshmello.
Now 10, Charlie idolizes David Beckham and Justin Bieber, who he assures me is cool again, and he’s one of the last remaining readers of GQ. He has strong views on Air Force 1s versus Dunks versus Jordans, and although he can’t always remember what a preposition is, he knows exactly when the Vans x Haribo collection is about to drop. Last year, he was spending his allowance on Prime, a foul sports drink marketed to children by YouTubers of dubious morals, but now he’s saving up for Supreme, which I suppose represents progress.
In August, after seeing the latest Top Gun twice in the theater, he returned from sleepaway camp in Colorado having changed his name to Maverick, which he spelled out on a beaded necklace that has not yet been removed. He used a Sharpie to “customize” (his words) his Hanes undershirts with his soccer number, the emblem of Chelsea FC, and Ed Sheeran lyrics. Until school started, he wore these exclusively with florescent board shorts, knee-high checkerboard socks, and tie-dyed Crocs. On occasion, a San Diego Padres jersey, size men’s XL, was thrown on top of it all for good measure.
“Although he can’t always remember what a preposition is, he knows exactly when the Vans x Haribo collection is about to drop.”
We now live in London, where boys his age are generally found in one of two things: school uniform or soccer kit. And from Monday to Friday, Charlie is compelled to dress like an employee of Dunder Mifflin, although I’m pretty sure he’s the only kid at his fortnightly boarding school who uses a splatter-paint Catch Surf changing towel instead of a bathrobe. So weighing in on his weekend wear feels unsporting.
And in a strange way, it all kind of works. Among his many gifts, he has a fashion editor’s way of putting things together; when he goes to Ralph Lauren, one of his favorite shops, he emerges with a color-blocked sweat suit that few would have chosen, but earns compliments from the bus driver and record-store employee alike. He regularly steals my Buck Mason sweatshirts, which I don’t have the heart to reclaim because they look so much better on him.
Fashion gives him such confidence and joy that even though I began as a skeptic, I’ve become an enthusiast. I now own the occasional piece of Carhartt. And on Saturdays, after his soccer games, he always wants to go to Selfridges to check out the latest “merch” and load up on xiaolongbao at Din Tai Fung—with me, of all people. And how am I supposed to complain about that?
Ashley Baker is a Deputy Editor at AIR MAIL and a co-host of the Morning Meeting podcast
