Clothes Make the Everyman
"This is what the cool girls are wearing…" "Can we all please start wearing…" "Three items you need to look like…" "How to recreate so-and-so’s outfit…" "Here’s how to dress in such-and-such core…"
So go the introductions to millions of videos created by fashion influencers. The cacophony of voices begging for uniformity populate the internet. Selecting an outfit, once an artistic endeavour, is being reduced to a clinical, methodical approach. Instructions on how to project an impression have become little more than step-by-step guides to mimicry. Clothes still certainly maketh the man—the everyman, that is.
Social media often takes credit for giving this generation the tools to overcome anonymity, with fame at the fingertips of anyone with a For You page. Yet, paradoxically, these same platforms also fuel the opposite: an overwhelming pressure to blend in. Simply put, the very spaces designed to help individuals stand out have become megaphones for a movement urging them to fit in. When someone takes to the internet appealing to the public to wear ‘polka dot bikinis’ this summer (to take an arbitrary example), the underlying message is clear: the success of a styling decision is measured by its ability to provoke mimicry.
This is not to deny that trends can mark a successful fashion choice, but rather to contend that they should not be the sole marker. While today’s social media-driven fashion encourages uniformity, history has repeatedly shown that true style emerges from rejecting conformity. In the 1920s, Chanel strayed from ornate, restrictive fashion, opting instead for simplicity, comfort, and elegance — an approach that ultimately established one of the greatest couture houses of all time. In the 1950s, Audrey Hepburn stood apart from her contemporaries by working with Givenchy to craft an androgynous, sleek silhouette that contrasted with the ultra-feminine, hourglass trend of the era. In the 1980s, Japanese designer Issey Miyake rejected the structured power suits and corporate aesthetics of the decade in favour of sculptural, free-flowing garments. More recently, in the 2000s, Phoebe Philo, then creative director of Céline, combated the logomania popularised by brands such as Gucci, Balenciaga, and Off-White with minimalism and neutral colour palettes — an enduring timelessness that continues to characterise the house today. Style is inherently individual, and by treating trends as the primary marker of success, we undermine this principle.
Beyond the erosion of individuality, the absurdity of these fashion videos is increasingly apparent. Hundreds of women wearing blue jeans and red tank tops are teaching viewers how to ‘dress like Monica Geller,’ while others in trench coats claim to offer guidance on how to ‘dress like Lily-Rose Depp.’ By associating staple pieces with the names of those revered for their style, creators are effectively stamping them with a seal of approval. The issue, however, is that this fosters the belief that such approval is necessary—even for something as basic as a red tank top. Ultimately, wear what you want to wear. It’s trite, it’s cliché, it’s true.
Whilst the threat to individuality is concerning, a more insidious danger lies in the rise of ‘core aesthetics.’ Creators compile imagery that projects a particular energy and package it into a so-called style, dictating that certain items are its capsule pieces. The other day, I came across a comment that perfectly encapsulated the modern fixation on fashion as a label: “What core is this?” Initially, it struck me as bizarre. But on second thought, it wasn’t that odd at all. The notion that clothing exists at the ‘core’ of an aesthetic and conveys a corresponding impression has captured the contemporary digital imagination. The aesthetics tied to different styles function almost as social media profiles in their own right, transferring our ability to curate a digital narrative into real-life self-presentation. This only intensifies the hyper-fixation on outward impressions. If social media offers a window into the life one chooses to project, then associating clothing with a narrative becomes its quotidian equivalent.
Beyond merely shaping personal expression, this trend-driven approach to fashion also reinforces problematic narratives—many of which are deeply anti-feminist. Women in the workplace, for instance, find their professionalism undermined by the hyper-sexualised silhouettes of the ‘office siren’ aesthetic. This emerging trend goes by many names—‘office siren,’ ‘corpcore,’ ‘corporate fetish’—but at its core, it revolves around an overtly sexualised take on office attire: form-fitting pencil skirts, low-buttoned blouses accentuated by push-up bras, and sleek, librarian-style glasses. (Picture Gisele Bündchen’s character in The Devil Wears Prada.) The objective remains unchanged—sexualising women in professional settings, thereby trivialising their competence. Similarly, the coquettish aesthetic, a hyper-feminine style advocating lace, pearls, and bows, dangerously flirts with inspiration from Nabokov’s Lolita, toeing the line between romanticising and trivialising themes of exploitation.
This is not to suggest that we should entirely disregard social media’s role in fashion. If approached with caution, it can serve as a valuable guide for those still experimenting with their personal style. In many ways, online creators function as a modern-day agony aunt, testing out ideas and gathering responses that others can learn from. Capsule wardrobe recommendations, for example, often prove incredibly useful. On one hand, social media fosters inclusivity by dismantling traditional gatekeeping, as more people share rare finds and styling ideas with strangers. On the other, the language surrounding trends cultivates an unhealthy dependence on external validation.
Social media has undoubtedly democratised fashion, making style more accessible than ever. But while its role in breaking down barriers is commendable, the way we frame and discuss trends risks reducing self-expression to a performance—one that constantly seeks the approval of an unseen audience.
Written by Amayra Seth a GLITCH Magazine Contributor
