Hong Kong does not believe in seasons.
There is only hot, and then there is slightly less hot. Spring and autumn make cameo appearances, usually while we are stuck in meetings.
And yet, the suit endures.
At eight in the morning, Central is already moving—trams sliding past glass towers, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Meetings begin before the heat has fully announced itself. By noon, the humidity reminds us where we are. Still, the jacket stays on. Not out of stubbornness, nor tradition for tradition’s sake, but because presentation, in this city, is a form of respect.
There is a quiet misunderstanding that wool equals warmth. In reality, fine wool breathes better than most modern alternatives. A properly chosen 100% wool cloth does not trap heat; it manages it. It works with the body, not against it. In a city that demands composure under pressure, that distinction matters.
The Hong Kong businessman—if such a singular character exists—is rarely loud about his choices. No visible logos. No declarations. His suit is not a statement; it is a constant. Something reliable, familiar, and quietly correct. The kind of decision made once, so attention can be spent elsewhere.
To dress well here is not about standing out. It is about staying presentable from morning to night, from air-conditioned offices to streets that never cool down. It is about looking composed when the city refuses to be.
Perhaps this is why the suit remains essential in Hong Kong. Not because it is formal—but because it is functional, disciplined, and deeply considerate.
And once comfort and climate are understood, another question naturally follows:
What makes a suit look right, even before it feels right?