The Bare Beauty of Summer Style

What I wear when it’s simply too hot to care.

Of all four seasons, summer is undoubtedly my favourite. She is the least stressful, the least fuss, the hottest, the sexiest, the most authentic. In many ways, these aspects are reflected in what I wear during the hottest months of the year.

For the hazy months of June, July, and most of August, I am usually alone, and trapped–quite contentedly, mind you–on a small Greek island, where temperatures often soar above forty degrees Celsius. Having grown up in the scorching summers of Australia, I’m well accustomed to the heat, and to my so-called “summer uniform” consisting of a colourful, probably mismatched bikini, an old T-shirt stolen from my father or sister (or an ex), and one of my six pairs of Havaianas. Everything about it is dictated by the heat: what clings, what breathes, what can be pulled on without a second thought.

For me, summer clothing has always felt less like fashion and more like a life lived in clothes. It is rooted in repetition, in routine, in memory—in personal attachment, rather than careful curation or the algorithmic approval the rest of the year seems imprisoned by. Barefoot on hot tiles by the pool, I pull light fabrics over damp, salty hair and bronzed skin still warm from the sun. It is both feminine and masculine, rugged and elegant, playful and sophisticated—because that is what summer is: full of contradiction.

After all the time and money we’ve spent building the perfect wardrobe, it can feel strangely overwhelming to imagine someone snapping the camera and not knowing whether what we’re wearing truly represents us. Was this dilemma simply the inevitable challenge of the modern woman? Was it Capitalism? Maybe–but I digress.

While I wouldn’t deny anyone the pleasure of shopping, discovering, and buying an entirely new wardrobe, I do believe it isn’t always necessary. There is no real need for a so-called ‘holiday wardrobe’. Climate, distance, and occasion may suggest otherwise, but the divide is often an illusion. The kind of panicked purchasing leads us to fill our closets with things we should buy but weren’t sure we actually liked, and then it never feels like you. 

Perhaps it’s foolish to conflate so much meaning with what we wear, but for me, style has always been a genuine expression of identity. And yet, as someone who, every day, takes pride in carefully curating an outfit worthy of the crowded St Andrew’s streets, why do I feel most comfortable, most authentically me, wearing virtually nothing at all?

Anyway, if I really think about it, what I wear in summer is, in essence, no different from what I wear in winter. By that, I mean it is simply what I feel comfortable in, what feels like me in that particular moment. In October or February, I feel a certain pressure to present myself well; I feel my best and perform my best after making a deliberate effort to put together an outfit. I by no means resent this pressure; honestly, I relish it. In summer, however, without rhyme or reason, there is an equally compelling urge to dress for no one but myself, and I feel just as good. 

I suppose another reason why summer is my favourite time of year is that, to me, it is the truest test of personal style; it is the season that asks us to ignore the noise of microtrends and micro-influencers, and listen, instead, to ourselves, to what we really feel like. In winter, a passing trend can hide beneath swathes of heavy fabrics; everything blurs together, but in the heat of summer, you are laid bare. You are you. There is no right answer, only instinct. Ease, in summer, comes from honouring that instinct, choosing only what you love, shaping your own essentials, and quietly discarding the rest. And I’ll admit, sometimes what I love is more than the ripped, sun-bleached tee, and may be, in fact, a sundress, or a linen skirt, or a silk blouse stolen from my mother’s closet. 

But the bikini will stay on. You never know when you might need a dip. 

• fashion
• summer style