Clothes are boring now
Everyone is wearing a costume, and it's not a fancy dress
The first item of clothing I ever truly loved was a pink floor length dress with a netted overlay dotted with crystals. This dress was half nightie, half costume but that didn't matter to me. I threw a fit when my granny wouldn’t let me wear it into town, in my mind I looked like an actual princess and I couldn’t understand why she deemed it inappropriate. Actually, I’m still angry about this. Barbara, if you’re reading this from the afterlife, it was a grievous error to make me change into sensible clothes (love you).
I’ve always been drawn to bold (read: teetering on tacky) clothes. Tie-dyed jeans, a diamanté belt, pink faux snakeskin boots and a corset top - an outfit I remember wearing on repeat as a teenager and knowing in my bones that I’d nailed it. Sure, it sounds like I’d thrown on all the cheapest tat you could find at Chapel Market in the 90s (and you’d be right), but it worked. And more importantly, it was fun, which you really need as much as possible of when you’re an insecure teen and so much of your time is taken up with hating your body.
In my twenties I experimented a lot with style, never sticking to one identity for long. I’d flirt with streetwear one week and then dive deep into a noughties California princess identity the next. I wanted colour and excess and glamour wherever possible. I wanted to dress like Monica Bellucci, Donatella Versace, Beyonce, Sienna Miller, sometimes all in the same day. There was a gloriously brief window of time when high street stores hadn’t quite tipped over into the churn and dump fast fashion mentality (ie there might only be one new drop a month instead of twelve) where you could easily buy clothes inspired by current trends, but ones which would last a year rather than a single wear. Boho, club wear, glam grunge, it was all there to experiment with and I tried it all.
But now, everything is beige. I have been so influenced by this slow but determined creep towards ‘quiet luxury’ that when I did a recent wardrobe clear-out, I felt sort of embarrassed by the bright yellow sequinned top and chainmail skirt I found lurking at the back. Just as the 90s gave us pared back slip dresses and plain white t-shirts after the excess of the eighties, this new way of dressing decrees that everyone should now dress like they exclusively shop at The Row. Everywhere I go, I see women in the same outfits. Long trench coats, white shirts, cashmere jumpers and sleek black bags (and don’t forget the much copied Bottega raindrop earrings that everyone and their mother now sports). Many people have mashed this pared back style with one which came before it - athleisure ware - which then offers a slightly odd ‘business meeting on the top, pilates on the bottom’ look. I have done this myself, and it always feels like a costume of sorts. But, unlike my rhinestone nightie, not a particularly fun one.
Fashion experts have written a lot about quiet luxury, exploring what it means after a decade of loud labels and logos on everything. Some think it’s a reaction, much like the hemline theory, whereby skirts supposedly get shorter when the economy is doing well. Others view it as a rejection of such obvious brashness, or a weariness related to overconsumption. And then there are those who see quiet luxury as just a new way to show off, to signal success in a ‘classier’ way. I tend to fall into this camp. Quiet luxury is no more individual than than any other trend, and it’s not unshackled from rampant consumerism either (no matter how many influencers say they buy less as a result). It’s not so much a departure from the attempted display of wealth that logo mania offered, as just another side of the same coin. But somehow, it feels more problematic. Smarter people than me have sounded the alarm about the racist implications of such an ‘old money’ style, while others have explored the inherent classism behind wanting to dress like you’re the fifth Roy heir.
Quiet luxury feels like more than mere minimalism to me, in that the whole point of this trend is to look rich rather than just sleek. In that respect, it’s no different from wearing head to toe Versace. You want your clothes to tell others you’re successful, just this time it’s conveyed through wool rather than spandex. But it’s still about showing off and toeing the current line (like most trends are), and less about personal expression.
On a personal level, it’s boring! I look in my closet and feel entirely flat about getting dressed. Which oversized jumper and jeans will I wear today? Will I choose loafers or trainers? Will I wear the big gold hoops or the small ones? There’s no real joy in this uniform, but I don’t seem able to escape it. Good taste is currently bland. There is no room for later sartorial regret in this landscape (see the photos below), and though I know trends will change again, there’s no sign of it happening anytime soon.
When it finally does, I worry I’ll have missed the boat for bling. Partly I think I’ve fallen for this trend because I’m over forty (suddenly and with no warning) and holding on to dated notions about dressing your age. Elevated neutrals (what a disgusting phrase) seem more appropriate for me now, and I fear that the sparkly, flesh baring items I’ve hung onto will make me look like mutton dressed as lamb. Yes, I know that’s a horrible phrase but it was embedded into my brain as a kid by various older female relatives and there’s no hope of exorcising it now! I feel too old for the milkmaid dresses I see wheeled out every summer, but too young to wear head to toe Margaret Howell. I am part of a new generation that no longer feels entirely constrained by ageist norms about clothes, yet I can’t see myself ever wearing mini skirt again. I want a halfway house, one where I can free myself from oversized coats and bring some pink back into every day outfits but where I will hold myself back from hot pants I’ve bedazzled myself. I can’t find it right now. So I will continue to feel like a sheep, both literally (because everything I’m wearing is fucking wool), and figuratively (because I look like every half the women in London).
I appreciate quiet luxury on others but I have zero interest in it on me - I can’t keep white/cream/beige/camel clean for 5 mins, for one thing.
Also I need dopamine dressing. It makes this nearly 44 year old feel alive.
I fall into the "wear dungarees at any opportunity and screw how old I am" camp. I've never been massively into fashion but can resonate with the beige take-over, which I personally resent. It's bland and expressionless. But it does also offer a comfort in knowing where you stand with what to wear in the morning. My anxiety paralyses me sometimes and staring at a colourful wardrobe feels TOO much to choose from (though I always feel comforted in brighter clothing when I've eventually wrestled an outfit on - usually dungarees as per my first point!)