Last week, I went to Eataly for the first time with a friend. As I sat on the bench and waited, I was struck by the fact every young woman looks alike now. Gold hoops, big pants, structured jacket, clean face, gel brows… you know what I’m talking about. It’s Carolyn Bessette in Aritzia wearing Glossier, and up until that moment, it was a look I wanted to nail. Suddenly it just felt so fucking boring. It’s boring to want to fit in.
At the same time, when I walk through Bushwick and watch Lizzie McGuire’s gay ass cousin who raided a Buffalo Exchange in the name of saving the world, I’m also struck by how boring that look is. You threw a bunch of shit on your body because you saw a TikTok on how to layer. It’s rebellion, but it’s somehow not personal style either. No one seems comfortable in what they’re wearing because I don’t think they are. In an era of mass surveillance, fashion photographers, and keen eye peers, the focus is more on dressing for perfection than it is to represent oneself.
This is a phenomenon I’ve noticed before. In college, gamedays presented the ultimate sartorial challenge. I distinctly remember watching certain sorority girls in white cheerleading skirts (stolen from the other USC) one week, only to show up the next weekend and watch other sorority girls in poorly made versions clearly rush shipped during the week. It was satisfying to nail the first week, and humiliating to participate in the second. Fashion trickles down! It’s hierarchical. We also want to be on top, but who is at the top for fashion trends anymore? Influencers? TikTokers? Pinterest images that feel personal but almost certainly have thousands of reposts?
(Fuck Georgia, but this is the best example of said phenomenon! TW: SEC sorority girls)
I think the best way to get something unique, something that feels personal, out of these influences, is to ask why you want to dress like someone. For example, I know I want to dress like Carolyn Bessette because I want to be comfortable and professional, a balance I imagine a lot of other young women in offices are trying to hit. She’s a good style icon because she screams “I did not physically inconvenience myself to look like this,” even if we know that’s not true. She often spent 3 hours a day in the gym, had a terrible relationship with being photographed constantly, and god knows what her relationship with food was like. Yet, when I look at her, I see casual cool comfort, something I desperately want to exude. To recreate her looks is somewhat of a security blanket, knowing they’ve worked before and garnered respect.
As I read Cat Marnell’s old posts to find this one, I realized that everyone is dressing like they unconsciously became terrified of individuality. It’s scary to stand out at a time like this, when so many abhorrent SCOTUS verdicts loom over us, we aren’t allowing children to say gay, and, as Clyburn used to say, the pendulum of justice is swinging backwards. Standing out sartorially is a risk only the very wealthy, or those who live totally divorced from reality (Brooklyn), can pull off. Of course, there are limitations around body size, wealth, and proximity to power, but for most, to dress for yourself is to make yourself vulnerable within a dark new world order.
We’ve turned the internet into a platform for professionalism, and we’ve all become terrified little clones IRL. You can actively undermine democracy in a New York Times Opinion column but god forbid you post red solo cups on your personal Instagram. There are two distinct cultures within our society: those who are getting ahead in their Aritzia bodysuits and those who are staying where they are in thrifted cowboy boots. Neither bring me joy, but the second brings me hope. If we want to stay human, we must stay weird.