Now listen—when folks talk fashion, they talk red carpets and stylists. But John? John wore his past. And baby, it wore well.
You see them famous round glasses? That was his tribute to a working-class kid with bad vision who still wanted to see the world clearly. That scruffy mop of hair? It wasn’t just mod—it was Liverpool rebellion, served hot with no apologies.
He grew up with Aunt Mimi—strict as Sunday service. She kept him neat, proper, trimmed. But John? He wanted mess, leather jackets, wrinkled shirts, beat-up boots. He wasn’t dressing for no Vogue shoot—he was dressing like his memories.
Even after Beatlemania exploded, John kept bits of home on him. A frayed coat his uncle wore. Army jackets he found in thrift stores. And don’t forget them New York years—with Yoko by his side, he mixed Japanese minimalism with British chaos. That man could wear a fur coat over pajamas and still make it iconic.
His fashion was intimate protest—against class rules, expectations, and even himself. One day he’d wear a three-piece suit like a poet, next day barefoot in Central Park.
His look said: “Don’t box me. I dress for who I am, not who you want me to be.”
