rant: dressed to dad
Sean Szeps wonders, do these pants make me look paternal?
The first time someone asked me if I was “the nanny”, I was wearing loafers, a vintage crochet lace blouse and sky-blue dress pants. The ensemble, once playfully described as “what Elton John might wear to a christening”, was admittedly high-fashion for a 6.50am playground excursion. But as a modern parent with too many balls in the air to even call it juggling, I was grabbing a coffee before daycare drop-off so I could rush to an early-morning media event.
Looking fabulous wasn’t necessarily my plan. I hadn’t considered what other people might think – just picked out an outfit I enjoyed and rushed out the door. But as I sat at the edge of the playground, waiting for my almond iced latte, a woman with aggressive eyebrows slid into the seat next to me. She watched silently as I emptied what felt like an entire beach from my daughter’s shoes. Then, without looking up, she casually asked, “How long have you been watching them?”
No hello. No good morning. Not even a “the weather, am I right?” Just confusion wrapped in a potential compliment, re-wrapped in a small cappuccino of homophobia. I smiled. Partly because my four-year-old was watching, but mostly because I’ve learnt to disarm people before the rage bubbles up and I throw my designer clutch in their face. “Their entire lives,” I replied cheekily, banging out the final grains of sand onto the rubber ground. “Nanny or au pair?” she added, as I slipped the shoe onto my daughter’s foot and redirected her to join her brother on the equipment. “Neither. I’m their dad.”
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For a moment, it was like her world paused. Her eyes expanded. Her lips parted. I could’ve sworn I heard the word “shit” form silently in the back of her throat. “Oh!” she said, scanning my outfit. “I didn’t… I didn’t… realise.”
Of course she didn’t. I mean, who could blame her? Fathers, in almost every corner of the world, don’t wear crochet tops. Dads wear blue jeans, ratty sneakers, baseball caps and an expression best described as under duress. We’re meant to be background actors in the parenting movie, both emotionally and stylistically. Functional? Sure. Forgettable? Often. Fashionable? Never.
I think about that woman more often than I should. Not because she hurt my feelings – surviving adolescence as a homosexual means you’re basically issued a thick skin at the door – but because she reminded me of something I’ve always known but rarely said out loud: there is no cultural blueprint for what a fashionable dad looks like. Especially not a gay one.
Growing up in the ’80s and ’90s, men weren’t style icons. The women brought individuality, uniqueness and innovation. The men? Jeans. A white t-shirt. Maybe a cool jacket if they were feeling wild. But that was celebrity men. The everyday ones? Pure denim furniture. My father, whom I love dearly and would trust to fix a sink or give me a run-down of every Springsteen album, had two moods: jeans or slightly older jeans. His idea of “dressing up” was tucking in a shirt. I remember watching him, and other dads like him, and thinking: how can an entire gender dress like they’ve given up?
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On TV, it wasn’t much better. The mums had flair. Carol Brady had caftans. Fran Fine had fashion. Even Didi Pickles had a whole vibe. The dads? Al Bundy. Dan Conner. Tim “The Tool Man” Taylor. Beige. Beige. Beige. Like human paper bags.
Then there was me. A flamboyant little boy obsessed with costume changes and colour coordination. I didn’t want to grow up to be like my dad – not from a fashion perspective. I wanted to be like my mum. Or Fran. Or Didi. Flash forward: I came out, embraced my queerness, found my tribe in the theatre department and fell in love with scarves, tight pants and metallic shoes. Fashion became freedom. Identity. Armour.
So when I became a father at 29 – a gay one, with a bold, femme-leaning wardrobe and a toddler on each hip – I didn’t just feel out of place, I felt invisible. I didn’t look like the straight dads in khakis, or the cool Instagram gays in harnesses at Pride. I’d walk into baby music class in pleated shorts and lavender cashmere, and watch the mums form a polite force field around me. They weren’t quite sure what I was. A brother? A manny? A misplaced contestant from RuPaul’s Drag Race: Family Edition? I wasn’t “dad” as they’d come to know it. But I was a dad. And one with a large loafer collection.
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I’ve gone through a full fashion evolution in the years since that playground encounter. I’ve swung from flamboyant and fabulous to a more “acceptable” version of myself just to blend in. I’ve purposefully purchased clothes that felt masculine and dad-like, hoping they might grant me some kind of silent membership into the Brotherhood of Beige.
Eventually, I found myself again. And I’ve decided to stay. Because when I think of “parent fashion”, I still think of women. But in the next chapter of fatherhood, I’m carving a new category: Fashionable Father. The dad who understands that clothing isn’t just about function; it’s about visibility, identity and play. It’s about showing up for your kids exactly as you are – in designer trousers, poop-themed PJs, or something in between.
And maybe that’ll be the outfit your kids remember most. Not because it matched. Not because it was masculine. But because it looked like you. Fully yourself, refusing to fade into the background.
Spy more of Sean Szeps' work over on his Instagram.
This rant comes straight from the pages of issue 128. To get your mitts on a copy, swing past the frankie shop, subscribe or visit one of our lovely stockists.