“Dad, lend me your jeans,” said no child ever. And yet here we are, almost a decade after someone decided that such a request sounded plausible and turned it into a stylistic urban legend. It’s 2026, and dadcore —the style of the suburban paterfamilias, as endearing as it is bland, defined by the wardrobe clichés of old sitcoms — now strides down runways and permeates collections of every kind, confirming itself as the most resilient look since Gen Z took over fashion to shape its visual identity in a specific, clear, instantly recognizable way.
If, once upon a time, adopting your faher’s wardrobe or style was seen as a simple miscalculation (at best) or as the unavoidable penance of Sunday outings (at worst), it is now understood as a statement of principle. In the dadcore aesthetic, the figure of the father represents an anchor to tangible reality, to those mundane routines — weekend barbecues, DIY home repairs, car trips, family documentary‑making with a camcorder in hand — that convey a sense of safety at a moment of extreme geopolitical, economic, and climate uncertainty. It becomes an optimistic totem reminding us that joy lies in the everyday, not in ostentation.
That’s why dadcore is also an act of resistance, a call to rebellion: in the face of algorithmic tyranny, choosing to dress like a boring dad is a slap in face at those other aspirational, elitist aesthetics that feed the false need to project wealth, according to the manipulative laws of late capitalism (see the much‑discussed “quiet luxury” or the classist aberration of the old‑money style).
Indeed, there is something deeply political about choosing orthopedic-looking sneakers over the fleeting hype, in preferring the conventional sturdiness of New Balance or Reebok to the modern fluidity of the brand‑new sneakerinas — a hybrid between trainers and ballet flats championed by Jacquemus. It is a resounding “no” to the planned obsolescence of today’s objects of desire.
Inspired by the wardrobe of the man who abandons his appearance — the arbitration of fashion, that is — once he becomes a father, dadcore revels in the comfort and functionality of garments and accessories as sad as they are outdated.
Shapeless jeans, with a rise as long as a baby’s arm, in a faded stonewashed blue, sometimes ironed with a crease, sometimes in the form of Bermuda shorts (a style known as jorts). Pleated pants that are neither wide nor narrow, neither short nor long, with a fit from no man’s land, right up to their ultimate version: the cargo. Ugly sneakers, like nylon tanks. The promotional T-shirt, like the one from that bar that closed in 2004, or the one commemorating a long-ago NASCAR event. The random visor, the rectangular cycling glasses. The stretched-out, patterned knit sweater.
It was precisely an infamous sweater that fueled the dadcore legend: the one John Cusack wore in High Fidelity, which Jack Black’s character called “the worst fucking sweater I’ve ever seen” because it reminded him of the ones Bill Cosby wore in the sitcom that made the Black actor the world’s favorite TV dad from the early 1980s to the mid‑1990s (before he was cancelled for sexual abuse).
The nostalgic revival of the film — an adaptation of Nick Hornby’s generational novel — at the dawn of the Y2K craze that celebrates the style of the early 2000s gave it aesthetic legitimacy. It was framed it as an extension of normcore, the sociocultural embrace of normality: a way of dressing indifferent to runway‑imposed trends and extravagances, with Adam Sandler as its most relatable standard‑bearer.
Georgian fashion designer. Demna took it from there. As the cornerstone of Balenciaga’s Spring/Summer 2018 collection, dadcore came of age in the hands of the disruptive designer. It bears repeating: Demna doesn’t design clothes; he designs consumer anthropology. His $2,000 jackets that mimic the feel of a cheap fleece are an exercise in brilliant cynicism: they sell the aesthetics of the working class to people who have never had to change a car’s oil.
Today, dadcore is no longer a joke, no longer the ironic parody it was a decade ago. As an aesthetic, it has morphed into something denser, deeper and, paradoxically, more honest. If it once mocked suburban functionality, today it is the uniform of a generation that has understood that adulthood is, in reality, an exercise in aesthetic survival.
While the system pushes us toward algorithmic perfectionism, the paternal wardrobe celebrates error, wear and tear, and fatigue. Dressing like a father in 2026 is like looking for a foothold in a storm. It is nostalgia for a security that may never have existed, but that feels real in the touch of a flannel shirt or the comfort of denim shorts.
No, it’s not a trend; it’s a symptom of a society that, tired of facing an uncertain future, has decided that the most revolutionary thing to do is put on some high-top sneakers, a worn cap, and go for a walk with no destination in mind, like someone looking for an address that is no longer on the map.
What’s curious — and most interesting — about the phenomenon is who is leading it: it’s not middle‑aged men searching for lost youth, but teenagers and twenty‑somethings trying to inhabit a maturity that has been stolen from them by precariousness.
By hijacking their dad’s wardrobes, Gen Z is using apathy as armor. It is their shield in an era of emotional overexposure on social media, a way of saying “I have no intention of making you like me” (deliberate anti-sexiness, the best formula for being hot). It is a return to the days when objects had weight and volume (for those born with a smartphone in their hand, a pen sticking out of one’s shirt pocket and a fanny pack are fetish objects/protective amulets). And yes, it is a commitment to practical sustainability, aligned with conscious and less disposable consumption (prioritizing the durability of garments above all other considerations).
There is, however, a twist — and a fascinating one. The current rise of divorced dadcore, the domestic‑existential aesthetic that evokes the experience of fathers rebuilding their homes after a separation, slightly shifts the narrative. It shows up in those TikTok reels that no longer appeal to the image of the stable, providing father who burns hamburgers in an idyllic backyard, but instead follow the man living in a rented apartment, forgetting to shave, pairing a worn suede Loewe jacket with an old T‑shirt from his favorite rock band. (The term also refers to the musical style of playlists featuring Eagles, Dire Straits, Tom Petty, Jeff Buckley, The Police, Bon Jovi and Fleetwood Mac.)
It could be considered the style of the unmoored: slouch‑shouldered jackets and sweaters that suggest postural defeat, slightly ill‑fitting pleated trousers, very short shorts paired with white athletic socks and loafers, and the gaze of someone who has lost their bearings but still holds on to their pride.
It is the elegance of chaos, the dignification of the midlife crisis, which has inevitably become a catwalk luxury. But it is no coincidence that this season’s collections (spring-summer, extending into next fall-winter) give us permission to be tired. In an industry like fashion, which demands more than ever that we stay alert and fit, there is perhaps nothing more subversive than putting on a pilling sweater and watching time go by, beer in hand.
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