Decoding the dress code: From Silicon Valley to Seoul
Over a classic Calvin & Hobbes breakfast, Calvin’s mom laments, “Nobody dresses up for anything anymore. People look like slobs everywhere they go.” In the final panel, Calvin, decked out like Gatsby, sighs, “Why do I have to change the world?”
That social commentary, which first appeared in April 1995, recently made a comeback. Perhaps Calvin’s mom had a point—long before Twitter threads and TikTok “hot takes” tried to claim the same argument. Somewhere between normcore, athleisure, and I-woke-up-like-this aesthetic, we lost something essential: the subtle, civil power of dressing properly, not just to impress, but to express respect.
Fashion, once the mark of ceremony and social hierarchy, has been overthrown. Or at least, it’s been re-coded. We live in a world where the power suit has quietly stepped aside to make room for a more ambiguous, algorithmic aesthetic. Nowhere is this shift more dramatically illustrated than in the parallel style universes of Silicon Valley and Seoul.
When Steve Jobs strutted to the stage on June 29, 2007 to launch the iPhone, the world half expected him to walk in like Darth Vader about to arrest Princess Leia. Instead, we were treated to this geek in black turtleneck, blue jeans, and dad sneakers that became his fashion trademark. For him, what a man wore was significantly, well, less significant than what was between his ears. His unpretentious attire, almost a uniform, seemed to say, “Don’t look at me. Look at what I’ve built.” Long after he left us, the world hasn’t stopped looking. Or admiring.
Steve Jobs wasn’t alone, or probably he set the trend. Fellow tech innovator Mark Zuckerberg followed suit—well, unsuit, selecting a drab wardrobe of identical gray t-shirts, perhaps, so that his brain wouldn’t waste precious RAM on outfit selection. It became a power move: dressing down to stand out. An act of strategic neutrality for a man with more money and influence than most snappy dressers.
And speaking of money, Jeff Bezos, post-divorce, shifted gears. He may not be Silicon Valley royalty, but his style pivot to black leather jackets, slim-fit shirts, and aviators signaled a man reborn, one who opted to step out of earthly spreadsheets to boldly go where no man has gone before, no man like him, i.e. More than a makeover, it was his version of leveling up.
Across the Pacific, we see Seoul redefining the style code. This is a fashion cosmos unexplored by Captain Kirk, where the hoodie wouldn’t dare be your first impression. In this world, dressing up is the true rebellion.
Koreans have long understood that appearance is aspiration. In a hyper-competitive society where presentation can crack open closed doors, fashion isn’t merely for show, but an armor, narrative, and identity rolled into one. Whether in Apgujeong’s sleek boutiques, Garosu-gil’s style playgrounds, or even the average university quad, many Korean sidewalks are virtual catwalks.
K-fashion has evolved in lockstep with the rise of the Korean Wave, shaping a visual culture where aesthetic intention is everywhere—from the streets of Seoul’s Gangnam and Hongdae to fashion capitals like Paris, Milan, and New York. From the tonal precision of layered trench coats to the bold elegance of gender-fluid silhouettes, from luxe streetwear to hip-hop-infused grunge, K-style has become a signature, not merely an afterthought.
Whether this was a master plan for global cultural domination or simply a brilliant byproduct of Hallyu, there’s no doubt: K-pop and K-drama have been its most stylish ambassadors, turning wardrobes into statements and Seoul into a fashion capital with global reach.
Blackpink’s Lisa, for instance, made heads turn at the 2025 Met Gala, breaking the internet (again) with her crystal-studded, no-pants look. It was subversive, strategic, and dripping in couture credibility. Understandably, she’s carving a name in fashion as the face of Louis Vuitton. She did it not by becoming the girlfriend of Frédéric Arnault, scion of LVMH, but by being the brand’s cultural axis, embodying the shift from old-world prestige to TikTok virality.
Meanwhile, BTS continues to blur the line between pop stardom and diplomatic soft power. Even with half the group still completing mandatory military service, their individual fashion campaigns—with brands like Dior, Calvin Klein, Valentino, Bottega Veneta, and yes, Louis Vuitton—continue to make waves and keep their Army swooning. In 2021, at the height of the COVID-19 pandemic, the group addressed the UN in specially crafted upcycled suits by RE;CODE, sending a clear message in support of sustainable fashion. The other message: style is integral to statesmanship.
Around this time of uncertainty, there was also a seismic style shift when remote work became necessary. In other words, Zoom happened.
Suddenly, the dress codes of two hemispheres collided. In front of our webcams, Silicon Valley’s affinity for comfort met Seoul’s commitment to appearance. The result was a hybrid: proper and businesslike from the waist up, but down below, unspeakable—pajamas, shorts, underwear, and sometimes nothing at all. Everyone discovered they only had to look good above the table. In many cases, hairpins and gels replaced haircuts as ring lights and filters did the heavy lifting. Fashion did what it has always done in the past: it adapted. What mattered was how you showed up in 16:9 aspect ratio.
That’s all in the past. Now, what’s fascinating is how the once-distinct fashion philosophies of East and West are remixing through the global content churn. The aesthetic feedback loop between Seoul and Silicon Valley is tightening.
American creatives are embracing Seoul’s subversive silhouettes and discovering Korean designers like Hyein Seo, whose techwear-meets-teen-angst aesthetic feels ready for Blade Runner 2050. Netflix-fueled fans of Crash Landing on You, Business Proposal and even Hotel del Luna built entire wardrobes inspired by K-dramas.
So which is better—the hoodie or the blazer? The gray tee or the rhinestone bustier?
Both dress codes reflect deeper values. Silicon Valley champions mental bandwidth and function-first efficiency; Seoul elevates self-expression, social respect, and the transformative power of beauty. But what both share—what truly defines the modern dress code—is care. Not what you wear, but why. To show that you value the people you’re meeting. To mark the moment. To claim space. To say something, anything.
In 2025, the real fashion flex isn’t having style. It’s having authorship. Whether you’re coding an app in Palo Alto or producing a lookbook in Itaewon, your wardrobe should feel like a decision, not an accident.
Yes, perhaps we’ve left behind the polish our parents prized. But in its place, we’ve developed a new kind of language, one that codes status not in stitches, but in intention.
And to borrow the wisdom of someone who rocked a cloak better than most: “You must unlearn what you have learned.” That was Yoda, training Luke in The Empire Strikes Back. But he might as well have been coaching him out of his Tatooine tunic. Because to change the world —let alone a galaxy far, far away—you’ve got to start by dressing for the part.
