“I’ll never get a job at Vogue dressed like this!” Or it was something to that effect, a work-friend mumbled as we met for coffee.
Now, at 19 and clad in typical nineteen-year-old garb—those trending balloon-legged baggy jeans, a black bomber atop a solid tee (also black), and a leather backpack of vintage veneer (and yes, black)—he certainly wasn’t unstylish by any stretch of the imagination.
Yet, if that luxurious landfill of a Proenza Schouler soldered unceremoniously onto my sagging shoulders like a sad designer Santa sack (and, not to mention, this glamorous side-gig at PurseBlog) had given me any illusions of ever having a shot at one of those Condé Nast glossies, they were quickly dispelled when I realized that, at 25 (a number I still refuse to come to terms with), my outfit was pretty much *gulps* the same!
You see, dear reader, like most “real adults” my age, I am a casualty of a time-body-mind warp: posting proto-millennial photo dumps on Facebook like it’s 2009 and DM-ing “lmao” to the banal brain rot of underaged colleagues. I just hadn’t expected to dress like one of them, too.
Was it time that I came to terms with the fact that my personal style wasn’t, in fact, so personal, or was it the universe telling me to cleanse my closet and nix that nymph of nineteen out of my system once and for all? And if I were to cleanse myself of me, what would I be left with?
1. Necessity is the Mother of (Re)Invention
“You’re practically a teenager,” declared a friend as I whimpered away at him about my latest heartbreak.
My closet has been my escape for almost as long as I can remember. It was a safe space I could get lost in for hours, organizing and reorganizing its bowels billowing with cheap polyester (blessedly, I now know better) until I found calm again within the chaos of everyday life.
Late last year, however, a family obligation had me packing a suitcase and flying transnational… indefinitely.
Of course, my luggage included a range of “minimal,” “high-quality,” and “elevated” basics that a common fashion conscience likes to dole out en masse to hungry readers (such as yours truly) as a classic capsule wardrobe. As for purses, the ones that made the cut were my pragmatic PS1 and my metallic Burberry Rucksack for when I need that little bit of oomph.
But here’s the thing, I might have a workable closet of carefully chosen, mixable and matchable pieces, but what of the rest of my zaftig wardrobe, bursting with wacky prints, vintage Balenciaga grails, and contemporary carries suited to my days of cutthroat C-suite exec cosplay?
You see, without the cozy, moth-infested confines of my only real coping mechanism, I was lost. And I was still dressed like a teenager.
2. “Basic isn’t a Bad Thing”
New York magazine’s cover story earlier this month – “It Must Be Nice to Be a West Village Girl” – went into the heart of the (endlessly memeable) phenomenon of the “Pilates-loving, Cartier Love bracelet-wearing, TikTok-famous young woman who can reliably be found sipping spritzes in Manhattan with a group of friends dressed just like her.”
Dressed almost exclusively in “white tops, light-washed baggy jeans, white sneakers, chunky gold jewelry, (“never silver,” as author Brock Colyar points out) and “one of those Aritzia Super Puffs,” these girls are basic, they “still care about immigrant rights,” and they’re everywhere.
Of course, part of it goes back to TikTok’s herd mentality and the inherent and near-universal cancellation of gatekeeping. With the likes of Google Lens, it’s already easier than ever to copy-and-paste outfits and dress exactly like a clique of clackers who seem to have it all together.
And it’s all the more pervasive when they’re spreading this love-or, in this case, the links to the exact SKU–to every corner of the internet.
But this also, on some level, speaks to the experiences of a transplant to a new city such as yours truly, which can be a terrifyingly isolating experience.
“There’s a cult mentality” to the neighborhood, explains Miranda McKeon, one of these self-proclaimed West Village Girls. “We’re all the same! We’re all doing the same thing! It’s not a bad thing. It’s community!” chimes another.
Truly, if a uniform of white tanks, light-wash jeans, and Adidas Sambas, iced matcha latte in hand – or in my case, black bombers and balloon-legged denim (also lightwash, unsurprisingly) allowed you to blend in – tying into the wider discussion of fashion’s merchification, or merchtainment, as Highsnobiety dubs it – wouldn’t you take it?
If nothing else, just to feel a little less lonely?
3. Beware of a Bargain
Naturally, I’ve been feeling the itch for a new bag.
It’s not that I have something specific in mind. Yes, I miss my burst-at-the-seams-yet-insouciantly-cool Bal Work. Yes, I miss the navy AllSaints tote accompanying me to every vital pitch deck and presentation. And it’s more in memoriam of those I miss that I wish to buy another.
Yet, my Burberry and Proenza Schouler have, for the most part, taken me through it all over the last few months. I don’t need something new (or new to me) per se, and I can see how I might never actually go back to carrying some of my other, less-used pieces that I only copped in lieu of a deep discount.
Because when you come to think of it, there’s something profoundly validating to a bargain. It speaks to a more primitive human need of deriving greater value; you’re led into believing that the rational part of your brain wins once you’re reeled in by a major sale, accompanied by back-burner thoughts of “well, I can return that.” Even if you, well, don’t.
And where’s the value in that?
4. Know Thyself, Shop Thy Closet?
It all translates into the (rather frustrating and wholly unsatisfying) dating experiences I’ve been having over the last few months. Should you get something (or someone) new just because you’re craving newness? Do you set the bar high or sell yourself short because you seek adventure?
On a similar note (there’s such a thing as TMI, after all), would I actually buy another bag? I know what I don’t want—yet another piece simply sucking up space in my (severely limited) closet.
But what is it that I do want?
What will broadcast my personal style in the homogenous ocean of homomorphically outfitted twenty-somethings that I find myself to be a part of – and not altogether willingly? Like Alessandra Codinha writes in Vogue, “Is not the entire point of being young and fun and flashy to act however the hell you want, while wearing whatever the hell you want?”
So, when did it all get so complicated?
Like Pamela Anderson tells Vogue, “I was just like, Why am I putting so much effort into this? Why am I in a makeup chair for three hours?” I don’t wish to be sold into a manufactured idea of personal style, “the way they sell romance and love during Valentine’s Day,” like industry theorist Rian Phin says.
I wish to discover my style from the inside of my closet again, just as I’d been doing all those years ago. For that fashion-loving, Vogue-devouring little child in me, if nothing else.
Featured Image via Harper’s Bazaar, shot by Randy Tran
