Let’s get this out of the way: Vegas is not the place for your “good” cargo shorts. I don’t care how many pockets they have or that you “wore them in Cabo once and got compliments.” Vegas has its own energy — half illusion, half desert survival — and dressing for it takes a little intention. (And yes, a lint roller. More on that in a second.)
If you're stepping outside before noon, congrats — you're already ahead of 80% of the Strip. But once you're out there? It’s hot. Like, surface-of-Mars hot. Linen shirts are your best friend, as are lightweight polos that don’t cling the moment you hit 102°. I once made the mistake of wearing black jeans for brunch in August. I had to pretend I meant to sweat through my knees.
Shorts? Fine. Just keep them above the knee and free of gimmicks (cargo flaps, loud prints, novelty patterns involving flamingos — save those for your uncle). Footwear: sneakers that look like you thought about your outfit. Flip-flops are for the pool — and even then, there’s a hierarchy. A well-made slide says “resort chic”; plastic thongs say “forgot to pack.”
Vegas after dark is a dress code landmine. One club will let you in with minimalist sneakers; another will treat those same shoes like you just walked in barefoot. Always check. That said, a good formula: dark jeans (slim, not painted on), a crisp button-down (not wrinkled from your carry-on), and a jacket you won’t hate wearing if you have to keep it on.
Bonus points if you bring dress shoes that don’t look like they’ve been to a wedding and a funeral. And please, for the love of all things comped, leave the square-toed shoes in 2009 where they belong.
Also: Vegas air is dry, but it clings to fabric like it has a grudge. Lint roller. Pocket-size. Don’t ask — just trust.
Two shirts you can dress up or down (white Oxford, printed short sleeve), one blazer that doesn’t wrinkle if you stare at it too hard, one pair of trousers, one pair of dark jeans, two shoes (loafers + sneakers), and a travel steamer because yes, people will notice the crease down your back. Toss in SPF and chapstick. That dry desert air will age you five years before dinner.
This city doesn’t ask you to be the best dressed guy in the room — just don’t look like you packed for a barbecue. Show up sharp, hydrate like your future self depends on it (because he does), and tip your bartender like you mean it. The rest? You’ll figure it out between rounds.