As I write this, the world’s attention is turned toward COP30, the global climate summit happening right now in Belém, deep in the Brazilian Amazon, running from 10 to 21 November 2025. It’s one of those international gatherings where leaders fly across the world to discuss how to reduce pollution, protect forests, and save the earth from irreversible damage — the kind of big-picture issues that remind us how small we are.
Yet, even as the world negotiates the fate of the planet, I’ve been thinking about something strangely ordinary. Something almost embarrassingly mundane. Something that sits quietly in the background of business meetings and job interviews, never questioned, always expected.
Jackets. Suits. Formal wear.
That entire layered uniform we inherited from colder countries — one that somehow still remains the gold standard for “professionalism.”
It feels like the world is burning, but we are still buttoning our cuffs.
So I want to ask: Is the business jacket still practical, or even ethical, in hot, equatorial countries like Singapore?Or are we clinging to an old idea simply because we’re used to it?
Let’s take a moment to sit with this thought properly — and perhaps sweat a little less in the process.
How the Suit Became a Symbol of Seriousness
The suit, as we know it today, didn’t come from the tropics. It came from Europe — specifically, from centuries of tailoring tradition that evolved in colder climates. In the 19th and 20th centuries, dark woollen suits became the unofficial uniform for businessmen, politicians, lawyers, bankers. They conveyed seriousness, structure, and a controlled sort of masculinity that made sense in societies where the weather could dip into the single digits.
Over the decades, cultural symbolism layered itself onto the fabric. People came to see suits as the visual language of respectability, competence, and wealth. Psychologists studying workplace perception found that just the sight of a jacket could lead people to assume the wearer was more reliable or more capable — even before they had said a single word. Sociologists wrote about how dark colours like navy and charcoal projected authority. The suit became a silent declaration: I am here to be taken seriously.
And of course, like many Western norms, this idea travelled. It showed up in former colonies, in growing Asian cities, in corporate training manuals. Suddenly, across Southeast Asia, sweat became a symbol of success.
If you were hot and uncomfortable, it meant you were dressed “properly.”
But the symbol stayed the same while the climate — and the world — changed dramatically.
The Tropical Reality We Cannot Ignore
Singapore has never been a cool country, but recent years have pushed our limits. On 13 May 2023, temperatures hit 37.0°C, matching the hottest reading recorded in 40 years. Meteorologists noted that this wasn’t some freak event — it was a sign of a warming trend. By 2024, Singapore experienced its hottest year on record, with higher-than-usual night temperatures and a relentless stretch of warm days.
The Centre for Climate Research Singapore has been warning us that temperatures above 35°C may become increasingly common. And anyone who has walked from Raffles Place MRT to Battery Road at 2 pm would agree — the sun doesn’t just shine; it interrogates you.
And yet, on many weekdays, you’ll still see people walking through this heat in full jackets, long-sleeved shirts, and sometimes even ties. Their faces are shiny. Their backs are damp. Their blazers are absorbing every drop of humidity like a sponge.
We do it for professionalism.
We do it for respect.
We do it because “That’s how business is done.”
But must professionalism be uncomfortable?
Must respect be sweaty?
Must seriousness come with heatstroke?
The climate is changing. Our dress codes?
Not so much.
The Hidden Environmental Cost of Dressing Up
Beyond physical discomfort, wearing jackets in tropical climates hides an environmental cost we rarely acknowledge. When we insist on layered “business wear,” we are also committing to the production, maintenance, and eventual disposal of those layers.
Consider the sheer material footprint: a typical business ensemble involves a jacket, a shirt, and sometimes a tie. That is significantly more fabric than a simple, breathable shirt. More fabric means more cotton farming, more synthetic fibre production, more dyeing, more shipping, more packaging, and more waste.
The United Nations Environment Programme estimates that the fashion industry accounts for around 8–10% of global carbon emissions. Every piece of clothing — especially formal wear — arrives with a carbon history long before it reaches your wardrobe.
And once it does reach your wardrobe, it often goes to the dry cleaner.
Despite its name, dry cleaning relies on chemical solvents like perchloroethylene, which environmental agencies have long flagged as hazardous. Add in the electricity required to run the machines, the heat used to press the garments, and the plastic covers used for transport — and you end up with a surprisingly high environmental cost for a single jacket.
Most formalwear is also produced far away — China, Bangladesh, Vietnam, India, Turkey — before travelling thousands of kilometres to reach us.
All this, in exchange for something we may wear for a few hours in a climate where it feels unnecessary.
The symbolism may remain impressive, but the footprint is not.
What If Professionalism Didn’t Require Layers?
This is where Steve Jobs enters the room — not in a suit, but with the quiet authority of a black turtleneck.
He was one of the few global leaders who proved that minimalism can be a form of power. Jobs didn’t just simplify technology; he simplified himself. His signature outfit wasn’t about fashion. It was about intentionality — stripping away the unnecessary to focus on what mattered.
In a world drowning in excess, Jobs embodied a radical idea:
Success doesn’t need layers. Clarity doesn’t need a collar. Sustainability can begin with simplicity.
He did not need a jacket to look credible.
He did not need a tie to look competent.
He did not need to bake under stage lights to appear serious.
His wardrobe communicated something quietly revolutionary:
I don’t need extra fabric to validate my ideas.
Imagine that philosophy applied to Singapore’s climate. Leaders wearing breathable, tailored shirts. Public servants dressed in structured, heat-friendly fabrics. Entrepreneurs in linen. Executives ditching jackets not out of rebellion, but out of responsibility.
Minimalism, when done right, is inherently sustainable.
Less fabric.
Less waste.
Less energy.
Less pretense.
And honestly, wouldn’t a leader who chooses comfort, climate sense, and sustainability look — and feel — more grounded than one fighting a losing battle with humidity?
A Little Scene to Consider
Picture this: You’re walking to a meeting at 1.30 pm. The sun is sharp, the humidity clings to your skin, and the pavement radiates heat. You are wearing a jacket because your company insists on it. You can feel sweat trickling down your back, forming a small but determined rebellion under your collar.
Now imagine the same walk without the jacket. You are still presentable. Still neat. Still professional. But now you are breathing easier, walking lighter, and arriving at your meeting without looking like you’ve jogged there.
Which version of you looks more capable?
Which version looks more prepared?
Which version respects the climate you live in?
Sometimes, practicality is the most professional choice of all.
Rethinking Respect in the Climate Era
We’ve been taught that certain clothes command respect: suits, jackets, ties, dark colours, stiff collars. But maybe respect isn’t in the garment. Maybe it’s in the person. Maybe it’s in the work. Maybe it’s in the awareness that our choices shape the planet.
A leader who cares about sustainability is worth taking seriously.
A businessperson who dresses in tune with the climate shows intelligence.
Someone who refuses excessive layers shows respect not just to others, but to the environment.
In a heating world, perhaps the most powerful statement we can make is choosing clothes that honour the climate we actually live in — instead of clinging to symbols built for different skies.
COP30 may be discussing global emissions and forest conservation, but our everyday choices matter too. What we wear, how much we consume, how often we clean our clothes, how much we buy — these things shape the world in quiet, cumulative ways.
Maybe the jacket had its time.
Maybe it served its purpose.
But perhaps professionalism in the tropics doesn’t need to be measured in layers.
After all, success isn’t what you wear.
Success is what you sustain.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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