Harry Styles shouldn’t exist. A boy from Cheshire who found fame not even winning The X Factor and has somehow become an icon in just over 10 years: it’s just not a thing. Except he is and you fancy him. Admit it. I fancy him, you fancy him, your mum fancies him, your straight male friends say they sort of feel an attraction towards him. Anyone who says they don’t fancy Harry Styles is lying.
Despite his origins in music being the most manufactured, 21st century-not-based-on-talent beginnings, Harry has morphed into a sort of Mick Jagger for our times. He barely uses social media, he urges people to be kind and stories of his generosity away from the cameras are always emerging. When his car broke down in America last year, he was invited into nearby house for a cup of tea by a man whose daughter was a huge fan and her fish in her absence. Of course an image this went viral.
The major takeaway of the latter is: he just walked into a muggle’s house with no entourage and had a brew with them. God, he’s cool. His style has evolved from teenage oik to gender-fluid sex god who isn’t afraid to give anything a go and he’s never looked better. So what better way to have an excuse to look at all his greatest sartorial choices and make a decision about who we are accordingly? Here’s what your favourite Harry Styles outfit says about you.
You tried to bring in skirts-for-men to your friendship group (or mirts, as I believe they’re called) but nobody answered your calls for a month afterwards.
You once slept with Russell Brand and still find an excuse to shoe-horn it into every conversation you ever have with a stranger.
Your favourite book is Alice In Wonderland and you enjoy close-up magic so much that you booked a magician for your 21st birthday party, only for him to get drunk on the bar tab your parents had forked out for and do precisely one-and-a-half tricks all night. You dated him for six months afterwards.
You collect trainers.
You are an adult who still has cuddly toys on their bed and once, when a sexual partner questioned them and you tried to make it seem cute, they made them face the other way while you did it.
You’re still abiding by lockdown one rules and you’ve taken the sex ban to heart. You’re scared to go back to real life. You haven’t even had a wank, just to be safe.
You enjoy taking MDMA. You’re on it now. You enjoy fancy dress too much, and people dread your birthday every year.
You say “holibobs” and “famalam” and “preggo”. You have a butterfly and some stars next to your name on Instagram. You post inspirational quotes.
You brew your own kombucha and bring it as a gift to dinner parties. You microdose acid and tell people to “let go of the real”. Monday to Friday you work in corporate banking.
Five years after you left school you had a one night stand with your history teacher, Mrs Stanley, after you bumped into each other in the local pub of your hometown. You think about it every time you sleep with someone new. Her sheets smelt of vanilla extract and she made you crumpets in the morning. You think you might be in love with her.
You are excellent in bed.
You have tried to replicate this look only to sweat into some cheap leather you found in a vintage shop that smelt of the musk of a much older gentleman.
You own more than three novelty ties. Unironically.
You’re a Royalist and have started a blog detailing why Meghan and Harry have betrayed the Queen. You changed your profile picture on Instagram to black and white when Prince Philip died, for which your own mum mocked you.