The photos, raw and unapologetic, snap to life on a flip phone—yes, like the iconic Razor—handled effortlessly by Mitchell Royel in the vibrant chaos of the Fashion District. Each frame crackles with energy, a grainy, nostalgic edge that feels more alive than polished perfection. Meanwhile, “Money” by Leikeli47 pulses through the scene, a soundtrack layered with confidence and rhythm that threads through the imagery, matching the vibe with every beat.
You want to know what I wore to my senior prom? A camo vest. Over a rented tux. My mama cried, and not the good kind.
I'm Haiden. Twenty-three. Born and raised in the Bible Belt, in a town so small the welcome sign and the "come back soon" sign share the same post. We had one stoplight, two churches, and three opinions, and all of them were about football.
And I played. Varsity, all four years. Number 14. Friday nights under the lights, the whole town in the bleachers, the smell of popcorn and cut grass and somebody's daddy yelling at the ref like the ref owed him money. That was church too, just louder.
My wardrobe back then? Let me walk you through it. Team jersey. Wranglers. A plain gray tee from a three-pack. If I was feeling wild, I'd tuck it in. That was my fashion range: tucked, or untucked. Nothing flashy. Flashy got you talked about at the Dollar General, and under no circumstances did you want to get talked about at the Dollar General.
Then one day I packed my truck and drove west to model and act. Everybody back home said the same thing: "Los Angeles? Bless your heart." Which, if you're not from the South, means "you're gonna die out there."
I didn't die. But I came close a few times.
LA hit me like a blindside tackle. The first guy I saw on Sunset was wearing a skirt, a cowboy hat, and a full-length fur coat. In July. And he looked better than me. That was the moment I realized the Wranglers weren't gonna cut it.
I went to auditions in my nicest button-down, the one I wore to my cousin's wedding. Casting directors looked at me like I was a lost tourist asking for directions to the Walk of Fame. One lady said, "Love the energy. Very... Sunday school." I said thank you. I still don't know if it was a compliment.
And then I met him.
Dre.
Coolest human being I've ever stood next to. I'm not exaggerating. If cool were a sport, this man would be a first-round draft pick and I'd be the waterboy. We met at an open call, both of us sitting in a hallway with forty other guys, and he leaned over and said, "Man, you look like you're about to sell me insurance." And I laughed so hard the receptionist shushed us.
Let me paint you a picture of this guy. Braided hair, neat and tight, with two strands hanging down to frame his face like he planned it. Because he did. A short-sleeve button-up in this geometric pattern, gray and beige and blue, like a museum floor got turned into a shirt. Dark trousers, cuffed at the ankle. White crew socks. White crew socks! With dark leather loafers! Back home, if you wore white socks with dress shoes, your grandmother would personally escort you back to your room. And Dre made it look like a decision a genius made. Thin gold chain on top. Not loud. Just enough to say "I know exactly what I'm doing."
Turns out his girlfriend, Nia, is a stylist. Afrocentric, artsy, earth tones, the works. And Dre takes one long look at my wedding shirt and says, "Come over Saturday. Nia's gonna fix you."
Not help me. Fix me. Like I was a leaky faucet.
So Saturday, I show up at their place. Brown leather couch, abstract art on the walls, exposed pipes on the ceiling. It looked like an art gallery where somebody lives. I didn't know where to put my hands. I stood there holding my keys like a hostage.
And then Nia walks in, and listen. Embroidered denim jacket with orange and gold flowers stitched across the shoulders. Black top underneath. High-waisted houndstooth trousers in brown and beige. Brown leather ankle boots. Gold hoops, layered gold necklaces, rings on her fingers. She looked like the cover of a magazine I'd be too nervous to buy.
She looked at me. Up, down, up again. Then she said, "Okay. We have work to do."
And that's when the dress-up started.
You remember being a kid, digging through your mama's closet, putting on a hat three sizes too big and a pair of heels and clomping around the kitchen? That was me. Except the kitchen was a loft in LA and the heels were a mustard corduroy jacket I could not physically figure out how to button.
I was twitchy. I'm talking full-body twitchy. I kept tugging at sleeves. Adjusting collars that didn't need adjusting. Every time I looked in the mirror I did this little nervous laugh, like a goat getting startled. Dre sat on the couch, chin on his fist, watching me like he'd paid for a ticket.
Nia handed me outfit after outfit. Patterns I'd never seen. Colors I didn't know had names. "Is this... rust?" "It's terracotta, baby." I wore a shirt with so many shapes on it I got dizzy.
Then she handed me the one.
A chunky, ribbed cardigan in this warm tan camel color. Worn open, over a plain white crewneck tee. Sage green trousers. White crew socks. Brown leather penny loafers. And a thin gold chain, which she clasped around my neck herself, like she was knighting me.
I looked in the mirror. And for the first time since I crossed the state line, I didn't see a lost tourist. I saw a guy who belonged on that leather couch.
I turned around. Dre was grinning. "There he is," he said.
I didn't cry. I want that on the record. My eyes did get a little sweaty.
Nia folded her arms and said, "Keep it." The whole fit. I tried to give it back. She said, "Haiden, this isn't a loan. That's yours now." This rule was not negotiable.
Here's the part I don't say out loud enough. Dre is my first Black friend. Where I grew up, there just weren't a lot of chances to build a friendship like this, and I didn't go looking. That's on me. But this guy opened his door, his closet, and his couch to a kid in a wedding shirt, no questions asked. Now he's one of my best friends. Period.
And next week, we're hitting the gym together.
He says he's gonna teach me how to dress.
I'm gonna teach him how to squat.
Somebody's getting humbled.
-Deck
Epilogue
Picture it. A Tuesday morning gym in West Hollywood. Two guys walk in. One has braids, a vintage tank, and the calm of a man who has never once panicked. The other has a gold chain he refuses to take off and a varsity squat form his old coach would weep over.
Dre spots Haiden on bench. Haiden spots Dre's outfit and finally knows what to call the colors. They argue about rest times, protein shakes, and whether loafers count as gym shoes. (They don't. Dre wears them anyway.)
Between sets, they talk about auditions, about home, about what it means to show up as somebody new and still feel like yourself. Turns out that's dress up too. You try something on. You feel goofy. You keep it anyway.
Same time next week.