We’ve been quiet little mouses these past few months, thanks to a busy end of summer, some all-around ennui, and paycheck-related work. (Something’s gotta pay the bills!) But since Paris Fashion Week wrapped up, we’ve had some things to share, starting with our totally subjective ranking of the top five designer debuts. If you haven’t already discussed it to death, leave your thoughts and comments! I happen to think there’s always more to say here, especially coming from those who aren’t as deeply-embedded in the industry.

Next!

More than the superlative croissants and pain au chocolat, we can’t ever go to Paris without loading up on a few pharmacy essentials. From propolis spray to a less-costly alternative to Tom Ford’s shimmery bronzing oil, here are our favorites.

Next!

While everyone was understandably fixated on the windfall of designers with new jobs this season, the sophomore collections by Sarah Burton for Givenchy and Haider Ackermann were masterfully executed. That, and some other tidbits and items of note from the very full week are here.

Speaking of items of note, some things to read elsewhere—

Is French fashion going through a nationality crisis? What started off as an article about the utter lack of French female directors heading up any of the major houses in Paris—and this was the fashion capital where “Coco” Chanel founded her brand and oversaw thousands of employees at one point—resulted in another thought-provoking query: where are all the French creative directors in general? According to David Siwicky, who runs his own PR agency in Paris: “It feels like design schools in France train students to work at brands, but not run them,” he says. Case in point: Louis Vuitton’s Creative Director of Womenswear Nicolas Ghesquière is the only French designer currently overseeing a major luxury fashion house owned by LVMH; there are none at any Kering-owned brands. Qu’est-ce que ça veut dire ?

In case you haven’t heard/seen/experienced it yourself, getting fired happens. And it can happen to the best of ‘em, as Kristina O’Neil and Laura Brown, two former editors-in-chief at major fashion and style magazines, make clear. They also got the boot, and not only wrote all about their experiences, they got mega-accomplished women like Oprah, Carol Burnett, Katie Couric, and Tarana Burke to share theirs, too. Their book, “All The Cool Girls Get Fired,” is also loaded up with topical and extremely useful advice for anyone who’s in the same position. Here’s my interview with O’Neil and Brown last month in the New York Times.

And lastly, RIP G.Label. Welcome, GWYN.

Subscribe now

Leave a comment

Just some snack-sized observations…

SPRING 2026 IS THE SEASON OF THE BIG SKIRT

Long live the queen? We know from the history books that Marie-Antoinette loved her fashion, but for some inexplicable reason, contemporary fashion persists in holding a torch for Marie-Antoinette cosplay. Exaggerated, wide-hipped silhouettes showed up in numerous collections this season, from Jonathan Anderson’s womenswear debut at Dior, to Giambattista Valli, Louis Vuitton, and Tibi (that one was at New York Fashion Week).

Big skirts with lots of swish and texture in general were a THING, resulting in a very clear juxtaposition of two prevalent styles in particular: the pannier (as discussed above), and what I’ll call the pompom skirt, which turned up at Chanel, Balenciaga, Givenchy, and at Bottega Veneta in Milan. It’s essentially the pannier skirt without the obstructive and cumbersome caging, and personally, I’m rooting for it. Not just because it’s more wearable (and even allows for practical features like pockets), but because I really do love a “party below deck.” I love a skirt with body. One that comes alive when you move—and one that moves with you, versus dictating that everyone clear out and make way (like the pannier). It’s fun, it’s a little glam, it doesn’t ask too much of you, which I think even Marie-Antoinette would find deeply liberating.

…and COLOR AND LEATHER

Beige, bye. Some of the best, statement-making collections from Paris Fashion Week jolted our weary systems back to life with glorious shocks of color. Loewe’s spring collection delivered an assortment of bold primary colors that looked ever so electrified: school-bus yellow, cobalt blue, kelly green, for example. There was also the palette of youthful pastels at Dario Vitale’s first collection for Versace, and Meryl Rogge’s mishmash of scarlet red, construction-cone orange, and cobalt blue—impeccably-styled with neutral outerwear pieces, making a compelling lesson on effortless layering (same at Celine!).

The prevalence of leather also played out at Loewe (not unexpected, considering the Spanish brand’s heritage), and Saint-Laurent, as well as at Givenchy, with Sarah Burton’s shapely take on the classic moto. We saw it in the form of a luxurious, floor-grazing tank dress by Gabriela Hearst; dresses and skirts fashioned from discarded leather pieces and repurposed belting at Hodakova; and the workwear-inspired aprons at Miu Miu.

TANGIBLY-SPEAKING: THE INVITES WERE TOTALLY “OBJECTIFIED”

For fashion shows, the French have always clung tightly (get it?) to the custom of handheld invitations, much to the chagrin of anyone who’s experienced a few missed deliveries, not to mention anyone carrying a small bag.

For some brands, the invitations can endure as little treasures and keepsakes, like the individually-purchased items off Ebay that Balenciaga sent out a few years ago. This season’s most dazzling invites have been incredible in their numbers and no-expense-spared execution. And given all the designer debuts, it would make sense that, along with social media teasers, early ad campaigns, dressing celebrities in advance of an official debut, they’d be equally-scrutinized as easter eggs hinting at what’s to come. Margiela sent out a recorder (instrument), for Chanel it was a necklace with a tiny house pendant with a clock counting down to the show’s time; for Givenchy it was a set of keys on a fabric strap; at Dior it was a trompe l’oeil plate of nuts.

I’ve always preferred to send out handwritten notes and cards—usually thank you’s to hosts for having me as a guest—but now I’m inspired to come up with a fun, thematic invite for a small dinner or gathering in this same spirit. It’s enough to compel me to actually consider hosting something (which I rarely do).

SOPHOMORE COLLECTIONS: OVERALL GREAT

It’s understandable that the fashion media spotlight was mostly focused on the season’s glut of designer debuts—some great, some less so, but across-the-boards exciting, nonetheless—but the sophomore collections presented by Sarah Burton (Givenchy) and Haider Ackermann (Tom Ford), and even Michael Rider at Celine (though technically a debut, his womenswear collection was a terrific continuation of what he showed for men’s over the summer), were pretty great.

I’d even argue that the second time around can be just as critical as a debut: if the first showing was a hit, can she/he keep it up? How do they further cement their own vision for an established house’s future? And if a first collection wasn’t well received, there’s an opportunity to course correct. I can already think of a few designers from this season who could benefit from that opportunity.

YES, PLEASE, FOR WATCH PARTIES!

One of the unlikely outcomes of treating fashion like sports: getting to watch it in the company of a bunch of other enthusiasts and diehard fans.

The scene just outside the actual Rick Owens show during Paris Fashion Week felt like a rock concert, given how many fans and onlookers gathered. Some had even crafted a makeshift platform to stand on for better views. But it was far more packed at La Caserne, a fashion incubator space near Gare du Nord, where La Watch Party’s organized viewing events were taking place throughout the week. This was the scene a few hours later while viewing Isabel Marant there. Other watch parties also sprung up around the city, which was so cool to see. Without the nail-biting agita of an election watch party, and the rivalry-fueled intensity of sports matches, they’re seriously fun IRL alternatives to watching runway shows alone on our devices. And they’re serving great looks, too. Business of Fashion wrote a story about them here.

THE WINNERS…

1. CHANEL

It’s funny how much we breathlessly speculated for close to a year over which designer had the right stuff to fill this role—Pieter Mulier, Marc Jacobs, Simon Porte-Jacquemus—and yet after seeing this stunning display by Matthieu Blazy, we’re all like: It could only be Matthieu. Chanel is in capable hands. This was a show and a collection that rose to the occasion, both as a culminating PFW moment, and as a foundation for Chanel’s next, post-Lagerfeld chapter. From the pompom ball skirts to the satin t-shirts and knotted tops, and even the beaded tweed suiting, everything had such a sense of elegant ease. And for the first time in a long while I found myself looking at it all and genuinely feeling something: desire.

2. LOEWE

Let’s hear it for the boys! I guess we should be calling Jack McCollough and Lazaro Hernandez—once the ‘Proenza boys’—the ‘Loewe guys’ now, considering how successfully and confidently they delivered on this first collection for the Spanish house. There was color, there was leather, and there was tons of craft in the form of innovative techniques and fabrications that you really had to see up close to fully appreciate. It was sportswear at its best, with some of the duo’s best trademarks integrated: asymmetric hemlines, a little ruffle flourish here and there, and a very downtown vibe. This brand is going to gain a swell of new clients, is my guess, especially considering all the novel (and colorful!) accessory options, which make for easy entry points.

3. VERSACE

The more I come back to this collection by Dario Vitale, the more I love it: for the unapologetic use of color, especially those pastels, for the in-your-face vulgarity (those men’s trousers, belted high and tight to show off one’s package), and just the overall freshness. There was a lot of talk about this collection alienating longtime Versace clients, but I do think it will gain more than lose. Compared to the other brands here, there aren’t as many clients to lose in the first place (not a dig, just the truth!). Most of all, this collection makes me want to see more of what Vitale’s vision for Versace entails.

4. BALENCIAGA

This and #5 were very close to being tied, for similar reasons in terms of what I imagine will happen with clientele, yet I simply liked this collection more. There was such an elegant ease to it all, whether the models were wearing knee-grazing jean sorts, or evening dresses. You gotta love a fancy gown with pockets! The silhouettes and colors were straight up Pierpaolo (Piccioli), but there were nods to various house codes (like Cristobal Balenciaga’s original sack dress), and even Demna’s time with the bug-eye sunglasses.

5. DIOR

Not my personal favorite of the debuts, but I do think this was a successful Dior collection in terms of laying the foundation for Jonathan Anderson’s often experimental vision and approach, as well as for gaining new customers. Accessories like the rabbit ear pumps and the shoes adorned with massive rosettes large enough to cover nearly the entire foot (I kind of loved those—they look like beautiful danish pastries!) are going to be hugely popular, and it sounds like most of Anderson’s devoted customers at Loewe are content to follow him, wherever he designs.

No matter how cuckoo busy Paris Fashion Week can be, I almost always ensure I squeeze in three things before heading home: a morning run to Place des Vosges; a glass of wine (and those deviled oeufs!) at my favorite spot, Le Mary Celeste; and a pharmacy stop. If I can check those three boxes, then I feel like I experienced a bit of Paris and even brought some part of it back home. Ideally it would be something grander like a day trip to Versailles, and a stop at Chanel—which is SO good again, you guys!—but time and funds are not always so expendable on these occasions.

Which brings me to the great thing about hitting a French pharmacy: you can load up on a lot of really effective beauty and grooming products, not to mention some good medicine items, for not that much money. (And while some of these things might be available stateside, they’re typically way more expensive, and sometimes even a slightly different formulation.). Anyways, every French girl has her go-to products. These are mine, whittled down from years of comparative testing, and snooping through several cool French friends’ medicine cabinets.

Propolis Spray - You can find propolis, which is known to have tons of healthful benefits like immune system support (and we need that during PFW!), in various forms at most pharmacies. I like to go straight for the throat. So far this is my favorite spray for the slightly sweet taste; use it AM and PM.

Avène Hydrance Face Cream (rich formulation) - I call this my quick lotion. It’s not the daily SPF moisturizer I ultimately slather onto my face after showering and doing my full face routine, but I’ll apply it before all that: when I’m heading out the door for an early workout, or to run a quick errand. It’s a perfectly effective moisturizer that absorbs quickly, but not so expensive that I don’t mind washing it off after an hour or two. Also, I don’t always mind a scent in my products, and this one just feels so French to me. Quoi??

Nuxe Huile Prodigieuse Or - This reminds me of Tom Ford’s Soleil Blanc Shimmering Body Oil, only it comes in at a fraction of the price. It has a non-greasy dry finish, and the luscious scent (camellia flower!), and shimmery, bronzing effects will make you feel like a rich bitch on holiday.

Phyto Volume Shampoo - One of the ladies working at the pharmacy turned me onto this shampoo years ago when I was looking for a similarly volumizing shampoo by Klorane. French water tends to leave my fine hair pretty lifeless and even a bit dull, especially without a hairdryer, but this passes the air-dry test. IN FRANCE. My hair has actual body, noticeable shine, and I love that this product is made up on mostly natural ingredients. The waterlily scent is really lovely, too.

CicaBiafine Hand Cream - Winter is coming, and my hands always take a beating from the dry, cold air. I should probably wear gloves more regularly instead of shoving my hands in my pockets, but alas… This has loads of good moisturizing stuff in it, but the two ingredients I love the most: soothing oats, and ceramide, which helps restore the skin barrier. I notice a difference after the first use, and it moisturizes my cuticles too.

We’ve dialed up the conversational tone and woven in more references to today’s zeitgeist—plus added a few keywords to give it an SEO boost. Take a peek and let me know if this lands for you.

I took a peek. The new version was extremely Gen. Z. And there’s nothing wrong with that, only I’m not Gen Z myself. I don’t talk, nor behave like someone born between 1997 and 2012, and it would just feel cringey to even try. (And while I get it, the SEO imperative can often infuriate me. I write for people, not for search engines.)

So no, the edit didn’t land. But it became a gift for how immediately and acutely it clarified how I want to write about fashion—and all the ways I don’t. Especially when I consider some of the other things I’ve written lately: a personal style essay influenced by a recent experience with my health and body; a fashion designer friend’s newest collection notes; and a message to a restaurateur that was later shared anonymously on his Instagram feed. That last one had nothing to do with fashion, but it shared something vital with the others: connection.

My personal essay definitely landed. Some commented that they could relate, others touched on their own experiences. A few friends said things like, “I could hear you reading it,” which, in this instance at least, was the greatest compliment. I felt seen, but not only that, I’d put something out there that let others feel seen, too. And somewhere in the space between my own experience and those we face more broadly was a very relevant conversation around getting dressed.

It felt really good (no better word than that!) to write my friend’s notes, most especially because of our relationship: I know him beyond just his profession, and I could see his fingerprints all over this collection. I wanted those context clues to come through in the notes, even if they were just below the surface. I was touched that he asked this favor in first place (and frankly the idea of letting him down terrified me), but his happiness with the final outcome meant that I got him.

And the note to the restaurateur on social media (which is now up to around 12k likes and nearly 300 comments)— it was something that compelled me enough to reach out in the first place, something that affected him enough to make public, and something relatable enough to evoke that kind of reaction. That kind of cause and effect is powerful stuff.

Each of these things reflect, in some way, what I mean to do when I write about fashion: to connect. Almost, almost always. Whether that shared connection comes by way of the subject or topic, or maybe I’m relating directly with my subject (if it’s a person) through conversation or an experience, the intention is to collapse the space between something we see from afar (like Fashion with a capital F), and something more up-close and personal.

How we relate to ourselves and make sense of the world around us, and how we process and digest that into the way we express ourselves in this world—when it comes to fashion, THAT is the thing!! Our relationships to ourselves and our bodies, and therefore the clothes we put on them, are constantly evolving. What’s driving those choices? That’s the zeitgeist I’m chasing down.

I’ll probably never write about first-date outfits without also mining the feelings and emotions around a first date. Or what it’s like dating in New York in your 40s, which looks wildly different from dating in one’s 20s, for that matter. If I’m exploring the enduring appeal of nap dresses, it’s to dig into something more psychological than the obvious answer that they’re comfortable and almost universally lattering. Like the premise that there’s something romantic and faraway-feeling about them that conjures up sweaty-bosomed milkmaids and lusty prairie women— ie, fashion parallels we don’t often call attention to, because we don’t think modern, independent women should really find these archetypes aspirational. But I suppose that only makes the dress feel like an even safer expression of these desires, right? These are the kinds of conversations I want to have when I write.

There’s a lot of noise out there. There’s also a lot of genuinely good, thought-provoking writing that’s already out there. There’s a brutal amount of inhumanity in the world right now. What I write isn’t going to save lives, but writing anything about it at all needs to feel worthwhile. It has to be sincere. It may not be the right fit for everyone, but that’s what makes it human.

Fashion can often rouse sports fandom-like feelings, these days more than ever with all the changings of the guard. For fashion lovers, it’s good, insider-y fun to speculate over who’s taking over at Chanel, or Balenciaga, or where Hedi Slimane is ultimately headed (Just give him his own brand already!), especially with those who share the same kind of nerdy enthusiasm. It’s no different from fantasy-casting film adaptations of novels, or guessing at who’s going to take the helm at Vogue someday.

But I think that’s where we’re stuck. We’re all so deep in the guessing games and high on the feverish excitement around the announcements, that we too easily confuse it for feeling something deeper. And then before long, there’s inevitably another departure or new creative director announcement to distract us from that realization.

When was the last time you felt genuinely and personally connected to a brand?

When it comes to genuine, flag-waving, throw-down-our-credit-cards loyalty, how can that even begin to exist when we don’t know who to root for: the player (ie, the designer—we’re keeping the sports metaphor) or the team they just got traded to (ie the house). Especially considering the swift role-flipping, and how singular creative directors have become in cultivating their own personal followings…from a purely business-minded standpoint, that kind of designer-driven devotion can either work for or against a brand.

Will a lifelong Chanel-wearer who’s only known it under the long tenure of Karl Lagerfeld (and briefly Virginie Viard’s) be excited about Mathieu Blazy’s creative direction? Or likewise, will a Blazy diehard who previously wouldn’t have been caught dead in Chanel become a convert now that he’s at its helm? Can a Phillies fan suddenly root for the Yankees after a trade? In Blazy’s case, I guess it depends on how he processes the house codes and refracts them through his own particular lens. Same for Demna at Gucci, same for Pierpaolo Piccioli at Balenciaga, for Ryder at Celine, same for them all.

New loyalties can and will of course form, but only if the designers have enough time to cook and nurture them. I’m excited to see what Blazy presents at Chanel, although I would have liked to see him really unfurl his full creative prowess at Bottega Veneta, where it felt like he was only just getting started.

In the meantime, while many of these brands seem to be in a state of full-blown identity crisis, the fashion figure I’ve found myself most loyal to these days is myself. I haven’t had much motivation to shop lately, let alone for anything new. Truthfully, not much fashion feels worth investing in right now, and that’s actually totally cool by me. There’s enough in my closet to revisit and explore, not to mention my own identity to nurture and express. I get the feeling others are on the same wavelength. I think that’s why so many of us are leaning into styling tricks like layering, and accessorizing with pareos and scarves around our waists, or topping a look off with an eccentric hat—dressing ourselves up with pieces that feel entirely our own, and making those small, but distinctive tweaks, versus wearing something that looks straight off the rack. We’re all in search of something we can sincerely get behind, even if it’s ultimately different for each of us.

Yours truly was out in the wilderness (ie, Bowery, about to cross Houston Street), and noticed that the fellow standing at the corner, also waiting for the light to change, was wearing a pair of curious white sneakers—kind of a cross between Mephistos and Vejas. There was an American flag on the side, but the name next to it wasn’t familiar. So I took out my airpods, waved at him until he noticed and took out his airpods, and I asked him to tell me about these sneakers. They’re Autry, he said.

He was French, the shoes were American (at least he thought so, he said, pointing out the American flag). We crossed the street together while he told me he bought them at Galeries Lafayette in Paris and believed that they were an old brand. That was all he knew, and that was all I needed.

After some further research, it turns out Autry has some solid American roots—going back to the early 1980s when Jim Autry founded the brand in his name. The sneakers quickly gained traction with the tennis, aerobics and running crowds, for their looks as much as their performance-driven designs. The Autry Medalist was even named the best sneaker of 1985 by Tennis Magazine, while the Jetstreamer model earned a five-star rating from Runner’s World magazine two years later.

The brand went dormant for a while after Autry’s death in 2009, but was revived in 2019 by a pair of visionary Italians, who zeroed in on the retro appeal of the original designs. And Autry was back in the game! Last year the private equity firm Style Capital (which also has investments in RE/DONE and sneaker brand Golden Goose) acquired the brand, which was pulling in about 120 million euros ($128 million dollars) annually. Earlier this month Autry opened its first standalone store in London’s Soho neighborhood, with one in Paris on the horizon.

Speaking of horizons, the latest style to debut, the suede Windspin, comes in an array of faded shades (27 in total!) inspired by west coast sunsets. If you haven’t seen this shoes yet, it’s probably just a matter of time, especially now that they’ve got a healthy amount of financial backing, an impressive number of retail partners, and a robust US-focused e-commerce site up and running. Sometimes it really does pay off to talk to strangers (who wear cool shoes).

A stack of unread New Yorkers and a half-read mystery novel waiting on her nightstand. She had just finished steeping her valerian tea, when the phone rang. “You must,” the voice on the other end. She looked at her watch. Could she? “You must,” the voice repeated.

She sighed. It was too tempting an invititation to decline. “I’ll be there.” A blazer and a swipe of red lipstick, and she slipped out the door. Twenty minutes later, she arrived. Whisked downstairs in silence, she passed behind the scarlet velvet curtain, and was promptly delivered a coupe. Candles. Cracks of laughter over the hum of voices. The faint notes of jazz in the background. Her novel could wait, her midnight companions were far more fascinating than fiction. Some nights unfold exactly as expected. Others make history, or at least the stuff of dreams.

Especially now. It’s January, and there’s an almost jarring stillness—especially coming off the holidays. I love the quiet, if anything because it presents an unoccupied space to do…whatever. It’s dark out; we’re wintering; many of us aren’t drinking. Taking a page from Katherine May’s book, Wintering, this is the time to burrow, to fold up into ourselves and replenish whatever it is our bodies and minds are craving: sleep, nourishment, some good movies or books. (We’re not that different from the flora and fauna when you think about it.) It’s also a moment to acknowledge the selves we’ve become in the last year— like really, really check in and see how the last twelve months have altered us: what we’ve shed and gained, how we’ve evolved, and if we’re ok with these subconscious software updates.

It’s a great opportunity for closet purges, too: visiting with the clothes we already own, like old friends, to see if they still resonate with our current selves. But it’s also the month to let the weirder parts of our personalities and imaginations run wild. Why not transform January’s silent void into stage where we can embrace our madness and make our own noise. Let’s growl, let’s roar, let’s get really fucking weird.

It’s not about making noise for the sake of being loud, nor dressing like a clown for the sake of being seen. It’s about pulling out that part of yourself that you know is different, but you lovingly and self-protectively conceal it because it doesn’t always align with what’s popular. Keeping everything controlled and contained all the time can require a kind of low-grade effort that gets exhausting after too long. Letting your weird out isn’t effortless, but it comes with this feeling of release and relief—a sort of tingly lightness—like a spiritual shimmy-shimmy shake—when you look in the mirror and recognize that part of yourself.

Laurel Pantin wrote about craving the gooey feeling of a little bad taste a few months ago, and I feel similarly. This is my rally cry for radical individualism and self-expression, but also a non, merci to trend-driven tastes dictated by social media and its neverending output of refracted permutations on the same theme. When it all becomes too bland—offensively inoffensive—to critique, what’s the point? The only kind of critic-proof I want to be is too cool and disinterested to care.

On the venn diagram for unleashing one’s hidden weirdo, the ideal cross-section would be where emotional intelligence (ie, having enough awareness and self-possession to not care) and a sense of pure, unadulterated soulfulness (tapping into my inner child) overlap. What that actually looks like matters less than what it feels like.

I know I’m sitting comfortably in that zone when I succumb to my infatuation for this look from Tibi. It’s wonky, and the colors are practically confronting each other in a way that doesn’t feel immediately comfortable. But the more I stare at those ridiculously shaggy periwinkle blue shoes and how they seem to be talking to the skirt’s clashing persimmon lace, the more my body pumps up its serotoni production. It’s right in all the wrong-seeming ways. And I want it.

I’ve started to recognize I’m in that same space when I look at images of Chloe King, whose own style couldn’t be more visibly different from mine, and yet there’s this “yeahhhh!” feeling that invariably rumbles up. She’s a ‘spirit misfit,’ in the sense that I don’t want to dress like her, but I yearn to channel that same unselfconscious attitude.

Other spirit misfits: Leandra Medine Cohen, Patricia Field, Rick Owens, young guys who dress like grandpas and old guys who dress like dandies; Kristen Bateman, the late Iris Apfel, these dudes at the Prada menswear show earlier this month, my best friend’s six-year-old daughter…none of whose aesthetics match mine, but I find an inspired and aspirational kinship in them nonetheless.

We have a few days left of January. If you let your own inner kook out to play, what would that look like? And really, what’s the worst that could happen if it stuck around a little?

When I was a teenager, I cringe-watched my way through a sickening number of makeover shows on tv. It didn’t occur to me to find other things on during those primetime hours (or go back to my room and read a book), probably because I thought everyone else was watching—maybe even enjoying—these programs too. And yet, those “call-in-the-experts-to-ambush-the-sadly-dressed-friend” shows always made me a little queasy. Even if I thought the hosts might be right in their assessments of their subject (often some poor, unsuspecting soul nominated by a well-meaning best friend or family member), their withering candor was brutal enough to induce the sweats.

I’ve written about closet confidantes, the friends you rely on for solid fashion advice, who help you deliberate between special-occasion looks, or tell you if you should in fact buy those boots you’re debating at the Balenciaga sample sale. But what about when you’re so sure something is unfailingly great, and you share it with your friend because you’re certain she’s going to love it too, and she takes one look, and gives it a big, fat thumbs-down?

It happens. It happened. I’d just gotten a chic new tote bag—a collaboration between a classic American brand, and one of my favorite fashion labels—and between the bag’s striking looks, and my friend’s own deep reverence for those two labels, of course she was going to adore it, right? WRONG. “I don’t like it,” she said, glancing up from her phone to see the photo I had just pulled up on mine. There was no “Hmmm, not my style,” nor an “I like it for you.” Just a flat-out “I don’t like it.” She went back to scrolling, as though the space of air between us hadn’t just been vacuumed. I, meanwhile, thought my eardrum had exploded. I turned back my phone and studied the picture. Had I gotten it wrong? Was the bag a misstep? Suddenly, I wasn’t sure.

There were several contestants on the makeover show What Not To Wear who didn’t exactly welcome the hosts’ criticisms of their appearances. Some lashed out with their own insults. There was one who told host Clinton Kelly that Botox would do him some good; And also Tristan, whose defiant declaration “Stacy and Clinton are in the fight of their life with me,” is seared into my cerebral cortex. I sometimes wonder if that episode had first aired today, would the audience be on Tristan’s side? Would we celebrate her willful hand-up resistance to the idea that two strangers know what’s better for her, when she already seemed pretty comfortable in her own skin?

I could have easily pushed back like those defensive contestants and rattle off something questionable my friend had recently worn or showed me, but it wouldn’t have made me feel any better. The fact that I was so bent out of shape to begin with was the issue.

It’s taken decades since first watching those tv shows to finally recognize the disturbing paradox of something that was meant instill greater self-confidence, but began by tearing down nearly every iota of that person’s confidence from the get-go. Watching all those dreadful episodes showed me what it’s really like to be judgmental to the point of cruelty—to make the other person feel like a loser for not marching in step with everyone else. At best, the remarks were sarcastic and funny. But more often they were bullying attempts to break the other person, especially when they clung tight to the things they loved most. And what’s really upsetting: we watched mostly in agreement with the hosts.

My friend’s comment was like a shoulder shrug in comparison—a quick head shake. Non, merci. In fact, she gave me a gift. Buttoned-up so succinctly in those three words was the reminder that it’s ok to not like something, even if it’s on everyone else’s love list. And it’s fine to say so. We should all be celebrating our individualism more, right? Maybe that’s why so many of us are craving a little bad taste. A little noise. A little dissonance.

And truly, those are best opportunities for an honest gut check. When we’re all so inundated by recommendation culture’s tsunami of favorite new products, curated wardrobe lists, and shopping hauls, it’s easy to lose sight of our own tastes. The experts on Substack and social media can advise me where to shop and what brand or type of something to buy—those things are often genuinely helpful. But when it comes down to it, they can’t tell me what to like. Neither can best friends. Honestly, that’s something I have to remind myself more than I’d like, but it gets easier with age, with confidence, with practice. And in that particular moment, all I can tell you is that I did my best. I genuinely adored my new tote bag—truly and deeply. And what more was there to really do but jerk myself back from the edge of having of a full-blown aneurism and trust myself to simply say so: “Well I really like it. I like it a lot.”

Share

You don’t have to be an Ina or a Martha to nail this formula, but using simple kitchen-speak, you want three main ingredients: something OLD, something NEW, and everything else to tie IT TOGETHER. Let’s call it, O-N-I-T salad-style dressing. It’s like making a salad with a head of lettuce that’s about two days out from getting tossed in the compost, then livening it up with some chunks of that new oil-soaked feta you’ve been addicted to lately, and a couple of other pantry staples like nuts, dried cherries, flavored oils, etc. Bon! It’s delicious, easy, and probably a little different every time.

So apply that same thinking to your closets and wardrobe. Open a drawer, reach all the way back—like all the way to the last row or pile—and pull out whatever’s been lurking beyond sight. Sometimes the surprise of whatever it is can be delightfully revelatory. Is it something you remembered you even owned? Is it clothing you still want? (If not, bid it farewell.) But most of all, is it an item you’d still wear? If so, that’s your something “old.” Now find a more current counterbalance. The first time I practiced this exercise, I yanked out a pair of dark indigo stovepipe-leg jeans from Uniqlo (c. 2014), which I paired with a trompe l’oeil t-shirt by Bevza (c. September—my something “new”), and a tried-and-true navy cardigan from Studio Nicholson (my something to bring “it together”). The jeans, which are almost like trousers in weight and cut, looked like something l could have bought last week, especially given how the whole look so effortlessly embodied the way I’m mostly dressing these days. And even better, now they’re back in the regular dressing rotation.

Other recent excavations resulted in the resurrection of a pair of Madewell 70s-inspired flare jeans (c. 2018), a midi-length charcoal grey pleated skirt that bore the trademarks of something from any of the recent Prada collections (vintage, purchased in 2016), a barely-worn t-shirt with the slogan “New York Woman” scripted across the front that feels eerily urgent (c. 2022), and an ice-blue satin slip dress that I wore to high school sophomore prom (my PROM, guys!!!). I recently wore it with my collarless Kallmeyer blazer—a new fall staple— and a tangle of chain necklaces, and felt like such a chic, adult Manhattan woman.

If it’s tricky, a little challenging, that’s ok. You’re not supposed to nail the “perfect” outfit every time. (What even is the perfect outfit? Who gets to make that call?) The magic is in the in-between—in that liminal space where you sketch the lines between who you are, how you feel, and what you’re wearing. And it’s fine if it’s all a bit messy. Sure there’s something to be said for go-to comfort dressing, and those failsafe outfits you can practically put on in the dark, but frankly, when everything is too polished and easy, it get boring fast. A friend recently shared her own name for my O-N-I-T recipe: closet roulette. I like how that denotes a certain degree of risk in the inherent unpredictability of the process, only we’re pulling clothes, not firearms. There’s today’s outfit, and then there’s always tomorrow’s, too.

The idea of all this isn’t to re-program or even assess your personal style, but to reconnect with it, have a little fun with it, and find real affirmation in that fun. And to also reconnect with yourself. We’re confronted with a daily deluge of social media and things telling us what to buy that we can easily allow ourselves to lose sense of what we actually want (for our own selves). Sometimes it’s there in our closets all along, which is maybe the most gratifying part of all, especially during these uncertain times. There you are. Something old that may suddenly feel new again—fresh, but not unfamiliar—and from that alchemy a sense of self-assurance and even joy.

Be good to yourselves this week, everyone. ❤️

WHO: Fashion editor and critic, and major friend to Dress Codes, Katharine Zarrella. Also, one of the most unapologetically devoted followers of fashion—and one with unflinching opinions—and we are so glad she exists.

BAG: Chanel 2009 (“I think”) 5-Pocket Reissued Tote, which she is releasing to the cosmos of secondhand retail via Vestiaire Collective. PS: It doubles as a pet rabbit carrier*

She bought things. She bought a lot of things.

The year was 2016. I had just launched my online fashion platform, Fashion Unfiltered. Fun fact: Running an independent digital fashion publication out of your apartment is fairly difficult, and you could frequently find me consumed by stress, curled up in a fetal position on my floor while typing furiously on my laptop. To cope with said stress, I bought things. I bought a lot of things. Fabulous things. Things I really could not afford at the time, that landed me in an impressive heap of credit card debt. (I’ve since paid it off. Bravo me.) This was one of those fabulous things. It’s vintage and I bought it second-hand—I can’t remember exactly where. 

She fell for my weird pockets.

This was not my first Chanel bag. In fact, I had many Chanel bags. The classic 2.55, which I still carry regularly, was my first. I got that one in 2014 before it became exorbitantly overpriced. I had a patent leather pyramid bag that my late mother had given me as a Christmas gift in 2007 or 2008. I had a vintage bag that resembled a vanity case from, I want to say, the early 1990s? And a tote, and a clutch. I bought this bag on a whim, because I was stressed, but also because I loved how weird the pockets were. Who needs that many pockets? Not me. I cannot tell you how many things I thought I’d lost, only to realize months later that I’d just put them in one of those pockets. I’d seen lots of people carrying Chanel bags. I’d never seen anyone carrying this oddball Chanel bag. So obviously I had to have it. 

I made her feel cool…and I made her giggle. 

It felt like the perfect bag for every day. Frankly, I felt cooler than everyone else when I wore this bag. Because this bag really is cooler than any other Chanel bag. It also made me giggle. Each of the pockets has little pictures of what you’re meant to carry inside. I’m not sure what year the bag was made—some Googling suggests 2009—but one of the pockets boasted a photo of a Nokia flip phone, which I found hilarious. Mostly I just felt like the chicest, kookiest version of myself carrying this bag. It reminded me that fashion really isn’t that serious, which is an important thing to remember when you’re often surrounded by fashion people who inexplicably take themselves very, very seriously. 

She saw a more organized version of herself in me. 

I used the pockets all the time. I thought they’d help me stay organized, but actually I’d just forget what I put in what pocket and I never knew where anything was. I’d put jewelry in the pockets thinking, “This is a great idea!” False. I temporarily lost so many pairs of earrings that way. Back when I was young and dumb, and used to smoke, I’d put cigarettes and lighters in there. 

And also—

One of them always had red lipstick inside. Safety pins for fashion emergencies, which I’d experience on the daily. Loose breath mints. Business cards when people used to hand out their business cards. Random pieces of paper with illegible things scribbled on them, that I thought were extremely important at the time. Bobby pins. Whatever would fit, really. Let your imagination run wild. 

We were inseparable. 

It was on my shoulder during pretty much every professional moment between 2016 and 2019. I wore it to interview Karl Lagerfeld (may he rest in peace) on numerous occasions. I wore it to interview pretty much anyone else I interviewed during that time. I carried it to my job interview at The Wall Street Journal (I worked there for a wonderful four and a half years). One of the most memorable professional moments, though, was when I wore it to an early Virgil Abloh show in Paris. The crowd outside was a veritable mosh pit. The PR was trying to pull me inside, but the bag was stuck between two other people in the crowd and I screamed, “EVERYBODY STOP! MY BAG IS STUCK! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH!” I freed my bag and walked inside. 

*She relied on me to safely, covertly transport her rabbit. 🐰❤️

I carried my mini rex rabbit, Mlle. Coco in this tote. I can’t remember the situation exactly, but I was smuggling her into some place that didn’t allow rabbits. It was a great success. 

But sometimes you grow apart from the people and things you love. 

I’m in the midst of a closet purge which has made me evaluate how I’ve changed over the years. It has recently come to my attention that I am no longer the same person that I was in 2016 when I carried that bag each day. I haven’t carried it in about five years (I’m not sure why, to be honest), so it feels like it’s time to move on and sell it to someone who will love it as much as I did. Also, I still shop a lot, and would like to avoid going back into credit card debt. 

Who knew “cute” could be so loaded? Last week Vogue published a personal style essay I wrote on the word “cute,” and all the conflicting and often-negative connotions it carries—more obviously so for the reluctant recipient of the word. For those who sincerely consider (and use) cute as a compliment, there’s often some confusion. But that’s the tricky nature of this deceptive little word, which makes me hate it even more for how easily it can elude some, yet utterly deflate others.

As I asserted in the essay: “Sex sells, glamor reigns, elegance endures, but “cute” belongs in the kids’ section.” For many, being called cute can feel pejorative, minimizing, and even infantalizing. It can make you feel powerless, especially coming from men. In our society where power dynamics have almost invariably been slanted in their favor, ‘cute,’ perpetuates an immature feeling of disenfranchisement. Even finding some way to comfortably live with being cute doesn’t make it any more aspirational.     

When I promoted the story on social media, here were some of the reactions and comments:

Love this so much!!! Nothing makes me more upset than being (myself or my work) called cute.

I’ve never known what to do with ‘cute.’

I’m cute. Not in a juvenile sense. I like to look nice but playful and not too polished. I don’t know how to explain it—I’m 5 years from 50 and often get accused of being a millennial. I’m not chasing youth, but I don’t take style too seriously for myself.

Love this essay and agree completely! We can be cute as long as we aren’t placed in a cute little box that prohibits us from being all the other things we enjoy being.

When first started seeing my American partner, I remember him sharing that his friends thought I was “cute”. After he shared this, I spent many sleepless nights worrying they all thought I was a juvenile, silly little girl (my partner happens to be 10 years older than me). Now I live in LA, and I’m ashamed to say I use this word constantly as a compliment.

In ensuing conversations offline and with friends, I also learned that:

• For some, cute can be ageless.

• It’s ok to be called cute by your elders.

• For gay men of a certain age, ‘handsome’ is the adjective to shun. “You may want to end up with the handsome guy later in life, but it’s the hot guy that everyone wants to be with right now,” a male friend told me.

• In Japanese, women are either cute or they’re sexy. Linguistically there’s very little in between (a friend shared this).

A few conversations also underscored just how mystifying the word’s toxicity is to some. My father, for example, was genuinely bewildered, but also curious to have some better understanding. He only ever saw the word as a compliment, but suddenly found himself self-conscious of insulting someone he cares about.

Our discussion was really constructive and [to me] felt personally meaningful. But ultimately I was feeling too self-conscious to say to him: “Look, no guy wants to !@#$ a cute chick.” I made the comment to my mother, who had her own particular, generational views on the word, and later that same day, my sister texted to tell me that her Italian husband had sweetly called her “cute,” which was met with vitriolic pushback. Whether using it or receiving it, all have our own relationships and struggles with the word ‘cute.’

The subject also came up with my close friend, Christene: “I don’t see you as cute at all, I think you’re elegant,” she said. “Cute makes a woman feel powerless,” she went on. None of this surprised me. As with any best friend, I’ve become intimately familiar with her tastes and aversions over the years, and I know that Christene is definitely not a proponent of ‘cute,’ in almost any context, especially regarding grown-ass women. And likewise, she’s seen me at my worst and ugliest, as well as my most fierce and fearless. There’s no way I would ever be cute in her eyes.

For my part, the conversations and engagement has made me more inclined—from a place of curiosity—to ask: “Ok, does this outfit make me look ‘cute?’” pretty much anytime I’m wearing: gingham, stripes, florals, bright colors, something flouncy, or something short. Not that I’m seeking a reason to change my clothes, but I’m genuinely interested to know how the perceptions of our friends and peers vary.

But how do you, dear readers, feel about it all? About cute, or maybe some other particularly irksome, ill-fitting adjectives you don’t enjoy receiving?

Thank god Vera Wang is an old lady. And we say that without a trace of irony. We’re not sure of the exact minimum age for guests to be included on Julia Louis Dreyfus’ brilliant, funny, and truthful podcast “Wiser Than Me” (perhaps one just needs to be older than Julia?), but Vera Wang was old enough to make the cut, and for that we are so grateful. Where else would we hear her talk about what it’s like date in your 70s after decades of marriage; or what her signature long, sleek black hair really looks like if she were to stop coloring it; how she connects to her body at this phase of her life, or even her candid acknowledgement that she has less time ahead of her than behind.

It’s not that Wang’s experiences are especially unique to the point of being unrelatable, but that there are sadly still so few outlets and channels for her and other accomplished and well-known women of her generation to share them. That’s why every episode of “Wiser Than Me” delivers one revelation after the next. Expanding our notions of whose stories we deem worthy of sharing is an empty premise if we think that one old lady’s story is representative of every other old lady’s story. We’re born, we die, but everything in between is our own.

There’s something about the way Vera wang speaks that’s so refreshingly unwavering. When you’ve lived on this earth as long as she has (Wang turned 75 last month, by the way), hesistance probably feels more senseless by the day. And yet we don’t have many 75-year-olds still working in fashion to lend their unfiltered thoughts. That she’s had the audacious nerve to stick around is probably an inspiration to many and a vexation to others. Wang doesn’t give a f!@#.

This year marks Wang’s 55th in fashion—her 35th running her own brand. In an era when time operates at warp speeds, and three years may as well be 13—Kendall Jenner was hailed on a recent cover of Vogue for her decade-long modeling career, for example—Wang’s longevity as a fashion designer makes her a rare phenomenon, and a cultural treasure.

Here are some of our favorite takeaways and thoughts on the conversation.

Was your own mother fashionable? Did she have a big impact on your own sense of style, growing up? “She was my first influence, and she always was. We started going to Paris pretty much every year, every few years, so she could shop in Paris. And she really introduced me to Yves Saint Laurent because he was a young guy, and she fell in love with it. She always admired artists. She was a real woman, truly a woman of substance. She used to say to me, ‘Every age’—I’ll never forget, and I was young. I was, like, 14, 15, 16, 18—‘Every age has its unique time and beauty.’”

On living gracefully (More advice from Vera’s mom.): “And she said, ‘It's not the same. It never will be. But you find your way through every’—she didn't say decades, but she said ‘every stage,’ and I always took that with me. And then I remember Chanel said the same thing: ‘When you're young, you know what you look like. It's God-given. But as you age, it's how you've lived.’ I think I might be misquoting Chanel.”

One major difference between male and female designers: “You know, for male designers—they've often said this in interviews—they approach women as muses. And perhaps they use their muse through which they can filter and receive different concepts. But for women designers, it's so personal. Whether you're me or, you know, Donna Karan or Miuccia Prada or Jil Sander, we relate to our clothes on the first level. We wear them. We put them on physically, and that gives you an entire different take and understanding of what designing should be, what designng shouldn’t be. Should it be stretch? Should it not? Should it provide support, or should it be loose, you know, and very open? It really depends. Men bring certainly an abstractness to it. They're not wearing the dress. They haven't felt the dress. It’s a different perspective completely. A woman designer, I pretty much see how a woman can look.”

We have so many thoughts about this statement. It would seem obvious, right? But why does it still sound so radical when someone—a woman‚ typically—says it aloud? Until Wang’s male counterparts openly and publicly express the same notion (and their reasons for abstaining would predictably range from pride and self-delusion, to fear of causing one’s own dismissal), there will never be a full-enough chorus to validate this conviction as a truth.

The forever truism of being comfortable in one’s skin. “I think a woman never looks more beautiful or more confident than when she's comfortable. And so I think comfort, both physically, and also emotionally, and artistically and creatively— that's when a woman feels true to herself. Whatever that persona is to me, that's when they look their best and feel their best.”

This also goes back to age and how you can be your 50s, and feel better than ever, simply by knowing yourself and what you like, what what makes you feel good, and feeling confident and comfortable. When that radiates out into the world, the world reflects it back. It’s the healthiest kind of intoxicating, one that transcends fashion and artifice, and taps into something more deeply encoded in our DNA. It’s almost primal.

And we see this in Wang’s vision. She’s continuously evolving and expanding her aesthetic—in 2021, she launched her iconic all-black bridal collection, for example—yet without losing herself along the way. By knowing better than to nose dive into the crowded fashion mosh pit, with its “-cores” and viral, flash-in-the-pan trends, Wang hasn’t had to make herself louder than anyone else to be heard. She hasn’t had to fake it to make it, because she’s always been 100% true to herself. And what’s more, when women designers like Wang say they design for themselves, it’s not a cop out but a strength. We should all be our own best models.

Growing up in rural, upstate New York, it was never very easy to buy the actual things we wanted (ie, the OG version spotted in a fashion magazine or on tv). Our local mall’s offerings left much to be desired, shopping online was nonexistent at the time, and the J. Crew catalogs we’d obsessively pore over and dog-ear were more akin to styling guides than mailers we’d could ever purchase from (too expensive for our budgets funded by babysitting money and a fair, but negligible weekly allowance).

This cultivated a scrappy, almost desperately hopeful resourcefulness that often sent us running to Salvation Army or Marshall’s, our parents’ closets, even the craft closet to suss out some kind of makeshift version of what we eyed on the pages of magazines. Not THE thing, but some facsimile of it that hit all the same notes in terms of idea and aesthetic. Sometimes we even liked our homespun or secondhand version more; we could be on-trend while wearing something completely unique from everyone else.

As self-conscious, angsty youths surging on teenage hormones, it sometimes felt like an act of survival to employ this line of thinking for the sake of looking cool. Nowadays we still apply it, but instead from a more confidently-rooted place of curiosity and determination (and yes, always a little bit of that youthful wistfulness, too). We see something we immediately fall hard for, but instead of buying that exact thing for any number of reasons: a) it’s not available yet, b) it’s too expensive to ever be an impulse purchase, c) everyone else is going to have the same one, d), e), f)…etc., we commence a personal quest for something like it.

An example: After obsessing over this insanely cool hands-gripped-tight belt we spotted during the Khaite Spring 2024 runway show, we scoured ebay and Etsy for something similar. Instead of waiting out the several months for the Khaite version, we found this vintage wraparound coil necklace with hands that clipped down as adjustable closures—for a song! We’re talking under $100 for something that also happens to double as a belt. We get compliments every time we wear it, but the dollop of cream had to be spotting this similar version (and this!) come down the Chloe Fall 2024 runway during Paris Fashion Week, WHILE WEARING IT.

Very often it’s more the idea of the thing, versus the exact thing itself that calls us. And then of course there’s the thrill of the subsequent hunt: the unpredictability and surprising discoveries from what you dig up, the sheer variety of what’s out there, and—if you’re sourcing vintage or secondhand—the embedded histories, not just with regards to the previous owner, but the item and the era it hailed from.

More recently, we made the immediately regrettable mistake of opening an email from Phoebe Philo showcasing a silver belt loop cuff bracelet that almost made us walk into oncoming traffic. We already knew the price would likely be out of our comfort zone ($2,400, which honestly isn’t terrible for Philo, but still a little too steep for a regular Tuesday), plus the style, as sleek and modern-feeling as it looked, seemed like it could have been inspired from something older.

We’re not completely abandoning the possibility of someday owning Phoebe’s version, but in the meantime, we put our lusting little hearts to work to see what else was out there.

Not as icy-sleek as PP’s, but the rugged, worn-in aesthetic of this open-back cuff has its own everyday charms.

Gucci, Gucci. Definitely the more polished of the bunch—and we’re kind of into the green alligator leather brand.

Another designer take on belt-loop trend—also the most literal—this version by Louis Vuitton exudes a straight up rock ‘n’ roll vibe (or bondage?).

Even though it’s giving fancy napkin ring, we’re really, really into this one for the intricately-patterned engraving and its Art Deco-era provenance. (Bonus for its adjustability!)

Even though this is probably the furthest in semblance to the PP original, this fanciful Victorian relic has serious personality. We see ourselves wearing it, and gesturing with our hands—A LOT—while speaking Definitely a conversation starter all on its own, no?

Like we said, we may still ante up and splurge on the Phoebe cuff someday, but in the meantime, it’s fun to explore what else is already out there in the world.

Leave a comment

Thanks for reading. Next newsletter shares a bit of wisdom from the insanely untiring Vera Wang. Queen!!!

We can thank Serena Williams. who as far back as 2014 (leopard tennis dresses at the US Open!) normalized this contemporary assimilation of fashion into sports commentary, especially when it came to individual players. With every tournament that compelled coverage and discussion around her on-court style in a way that didn’t diminish nor distract from her command as an athlete, the more we were able to see how fashion in general could be a legitimate, impactful way for a player to express another aspect of her or his identity.

Here’s a thought: Why not take a page from this summer’s sports-packed playbook and apply the concept of a player’s kit to our own seasonal edits? When it comes to building out a trim lineup of season-specific pieces, kit-thinking offers a streamlined (and fun—if anything for the novelty) approach to assessing your closet, or even your shopping list. Kind of like you’re creating a capsule collection, only not exclusive to single designer or brand. In other words, it’s your summer capsule—aka, your summer kit.

We’re not going to tell you what goes in your summer kit, although a “week in the life of you” is a good way to think about it. Granted, just like any kit—toolkit, toiletry kit, first aid kit—you’re pulling together a set of items needed for a specific purpose, and yet the application of kit-building here especially benefits from the sports metaphor because this is where your own unique personal style comes out to play— literally. In other words, your replenishment of ribbed cotton tank tops and other super-versatile, perennial basics don’t qualify. You need those as well, but it’s the key pieces that thrust your singular, seasonal style forward, distinguishing you from anyone else—ie, the pieces in Serena’s kit that only she could pull off—that make the cut. These are your headliners: the newly-acquired pieces for the season that you build upon. And when you think about it, you actually don’t need that many.

Here’s most of the starting lineup in our own. Let’s call it Summer Edit Kit: June.

Of course, shopping is fun, and we’ve already purchased a cute linen skort by Batsheva since taking this pic, but the kit mindset has definitely curbed some excessive tendencies, and helped us walk away from the weaker inessentials. We’re going for aces only over here.

As the title of this declares, we’re feeling pretty exhausted by the abundant, same-feeling fashion Substacks occupying our inbox these days, not to mention how overwhelmingly Substack (in general) has taken a swing towards the commercial. Substack was always a money-making platform, given the pay-to subscribe model, but now we have brands and fashion designers getting on board, not necessarily to sell subscriptions, but to peddle clothes.

Then there’s the easy money (silly loot!) payouts to content creators from affiliate links. It’s hardly a new thing, but the notion of bankrolling someone’s shopping habits by buying items off their personally-curated shopping round-up (if there are links, someone’s getting paid) is starting to feel, well, icky, maybe because there’s such little subtlety around it these days. How many fashion Substacks do we need to tell us what to buy, and how to wear it, especially when the wearying cycle of churning out content for the sake of content makes so much of it unoriginal, repetitive, and antithetical to Substack’s seminal premise, which was rooted in something more authentic and sincere: it was about the person (and their personality) behind the Substack, as much as what they had to say. The platform doesn’t feel like the wellspring of original thinking it once was.

Right now, all the linking and re-hashing of what others have already posted or written on fashion and style means that anyone could be mistaken for everyone else. Let’s call it our “Ditto Era,” or even our “Dupe Era.” There will always be originals: Erin and Jonah of Blackbird Spyplane, for example. Their off-the-wall style and vernacular is practically dupe-proof. Leandra Medine, whether you aspire to her kooky, adventurous and unabashedly unfazed aesthetic or not, is another one. At the end of the day, she’s been doing her own thing for too long to care about mass appeal. At the same time, the few original thinkers are the widely-known exceptions proving the rule that we operate in, and we’re very much perpetuating the existence of, a monoculture right now, especially when everyone’s cognizant of those same few outliers.

Substack expanded the fashion bubble by building a stage for more voices and opinions to flourish beyond traditional media, but it’s not going to be THE THING to disrupt it to the point of breaking and rebuilding, or to even crack it wide open. If anything, the fashion bubble is now a fashion dome: still constrained by an alarming number of individuals in here who all look identical on a census form.

It’s like that moment at a party when you glance around and notice that everyone dresses the same, sounds the same, wears the same non-fragrance fragrance, and you say to yourself, “Ugggggh, I need to expand my friend group.” That time is now, and this one’s on us. We’re actually not blaming Substack or even those with Substacks (We’re the ones who clicked ‘Subscribe,’ after all.). Nor do we want to be the ever-complaining party-poopers! We just needed to find a way to manage this space better in order to keep loving it. Alas, maybe you’ll find some of the ideas below useful before drowning in a sea of fashion Substacks.

Most of all, thanks for reading. Just the act of writing this has reminded us to continue turning out essays, interviews, and other pieces about fashion and personal style that feel relevant, original, and hopefully CONNECT in some way. If reading any of this makes you want to start up a conversation with a friend (or with us!), see a film with a great lineup of costumes, rifle through your closet and try on a bunch of clothes, or ogle what other people are wearing on the street, then something’s right.

1. Whittle down your Substack stack

First of all, paying for even just a few Substack subscriptions is NOT cheap. And how many newsletters do you actually need coercing you into buying the same Loewe clutch?Look at which ones you’re paying for, and then do a hard edit from there: consider the author, the frequency of delivery, whether or not you find yourself reading the newsletter in full—ultimately does it feel worth it? Especially compared to whatever else you’re also paying for? If you have two that feel too similar, consider pausing one. Or diversify your lineup altogether.

2. Scale back your shopping

Commit to not buying anything new for an extended period of time. You may be pleasantly stunned to notice how less interested you are in reading something without the intention to purchase.

3. Play dress-up

Going along with the above, shop your own closet. Maybe try on a bunch of outfits in a single day, taking pics as personal documentation when something especially works. Or snap selfies of your outfits for a week/month, and see what patterns emerge as your own personal trends. Maybe enlist the input of a closet confidante. In other words, bring something more personal back to your personal style: by wearing clothes that ultimately make you feel good, not because you saw them on a list.

4. Get off your device.

We’re all for digital media, but it has its limits. There are infinite other ways to glean fashion inspiration beyond Instagram, TikTok, Substack…even Vogue Runway. If you live in a city like New York, go out and people-watch! Buy a magazine, see a movie, a live show, a museum exhibition. Case in point: seeing the contrast of someone’s black and white Adidas sambas against her bubbly midi-skirt during a random afternoon walk made us think of saddle shoes, which impelled our latest deep-dive image search for moodboard swatches. You might read about it all in a future newsletter. ;)

I don’t think it started with her asking. I don’t even think I asked. What child asks if they may solicit an opinion? But that’s what I did, probably before I could tie my own shoes, while studying my mom as she got herself ready for nights out with my dad. Perched on the edge of the bed, I watched and waited while she put on something more exciting than what she had been wearing earlier that day. She would stand in front of the open closet door’s full-length mirror and turn to the left, then to the right, then almost all the way around, looking over her shoulder. She would return front-facing again, one leg planted out in front of the other, and emit a sound that was part-sigh, part-hmmmm. That was my prompt. Sometimes I was mercenary (“I don’t like the top half.” “Do you have anything better?”). At other times, I was more encouraging—especially if I sensed she wasn’t feeling so great about herself in that moment, and the cause seemed bigger than figuring out what to wear.

In retrospect, maybe those were even the moments I shined. If I could make my mom smile at herself in the mirror and leave the room seeming slightly more lit up, I had done something right, despite not yet fully grasping the psychological interplay between feeling good and looking good at the time. I recently asked her, how old was I when I first vocalized my fashion assessments? “Probably from the very start. You eyed me with the deepest opinion,” she wrote back in a text message. It’s true, I was a silent, sponge-like observer from day one. But give me a closet, an accessories drawer, a store changing room, or even just my mother standing half-dressed in front of a mirror, and all my introversion dissipated. My mom wasn’t bothered by the opinions of a four-foot-tall fashion critic, either. In fact she valued the assistance. She still does.

Many of us have a person like this in our lives. Not necessarily a miniature crazy person channeling Anna Wintour, but someone who knows our styles and tastes, and what shapes and silhouettes look best on our bodies—not from study so much as from familiarity. It’s the person who knows what clothes make us feel confident and beautiful, and encourages us to even push things a little farther, sometimes—to try something just a little off-center, or add that extra detail or accent that makes the familiar and comfortable feel a little more fresh and alive. Someone who’s not AI, nor a style person on TikTok, but a closet confidante, or fashion emergency contact of sorts.

I have two: Joyce and Jodie. I tend to call on them separately, depending on the input I need. Joyce gives me validation; when I’m about 95 percent certain I’m going to walk out the door in a certain outfit, she almost unconditionally provides that other five percent. It’s the best boost before leaving the house. Jodie gives me a decision. I’m generally pretty confident in my style choices, but I’m caught between ‘this blazer’ and ‘which shirt to wear with it’, Jodie’s opinion is usually the critical tiebreaker (though sometimes she’ll offer up a fresh alternative). Our personal styles are pretty different, but that’s less of a hindrance than one would think. Jodie knows me. She convinced me to forgo the long and ruffled, bohemian-feeling maxi dress I wanted to wear on my 40th birthday for an embroidered A-line minidress with big, pillowy sleeves. I never would have considered it on my own, but as soon as I tugged the zipper closed, every cell in my body did a little shimmy, knowing it was the perfect choice for the dinner I hosted that night.

That’s the difference between relying on your friends and frantically scrolling TikTok for one-sze-fits-most styling advice. We tend to look online for fashion inspiration and direction when we have no idea what we’re doing. The algorithms may provide us with trends and the latest “cores,” but our confidantes give us the truth.

They might critique—sometimes bluntly—but the end result leaves you feeling confident, versus inadequate. It’s not about winning an argument or who’s the better stylist. All that is irrelevant when the ultimate goal is to ensure you look and feel like your best in the most authentic way possible. I asked some other fashion-loving peers to tell me about their closet confidantes—or in one case, lack thereof.

Laura Kim, Co-Creative Director at Oscar de la Renta and co-founder of Monse: Tina [Leung] and Ezra [Williams]. They both like things a bit more wild than me, so I like their advice. Tina knows everything on the market, and she has a great eye.

Jenny Walton, Artist and Vogue columnist: I call on my best friend Trevor. He’s a shoe designer, and we met at Parsons, and then starting living together in Brooklyn, and we have a similar reference point. We both love old movies and the same actresses, so we share a similar visual language and it’s easy to understand what the other is thinking about.

Beverly Nguyen, Stylist and Owner of Beverly’s: I don’t really have one, because I’m the person for everyone else. I never send “a do we like this?” I just buy it, or wear it—no questions asked.

Emme Parsons, Shoe designer: Lauren Sherman because we’ve grown up together, and she’ll be brutally honest with me in the nicest way.

Lauren Sherman, Puck Newsletter Writer and Author: Becky Malinksy, for sure. She’s one of the few friends that I call unprompted, and she's incisive. Need an opinion on a new pair of shoes? Need to know if you should upend your entire life? Becky is your girl.

Jodie Chan, Vice President of Global Marketing & Communications at Carolina Herrera: Subconsciously—I think for me, it depends on what kind of feedback I’m trying to solicit: Encouraging or honest. Sometimes it’s Sam [Lau], because she’s extremely quick and savage/brutal.

Samantha Lau - Jodie is someone I reach out too! We’re both Libras and are enablers when it comes to shopping 😅😅😅. My friend Lisa who’s a producer in fashion is another go-to. I guess we have similar aesthetics so I trust her judgment on things

Everyone has their own criteria for the ideal person to call on when it comes to styling and shopping dilemmas, but decisive and quick are definitely key qualities. Which makes me wonder, maybe it’s worth starting a group chat with your 2-3 most trusted go-tos for this sort of thing, if anything for the higher likelihood of a fast response…or maybe you already have. If this is a tried-and-true trend I somehow didn’t clock, tell me! And who is (or who would be), in yours? 

And there’s something vaguely Old World or European-feeling about them, too. In Paris, one can gather all the ingredients for that night’s dinner and some sundries for the week ahead during quick, single stops along the walk home: the boulangerie (bakery), the fromagerie (cheese shop), the pâtisserie (pastry shop), the boucherie (butcher), every name plainly announcing its role. And every quarter or arrondissement contains its many micro-neighborhoods, each comprising its own collection of these essential vendors where local residents show their loyalty with daily patronage. Then there are the specialty destinations like E. Dehillerin, a fantastically famous kitchen supply store where one can spend hours comparing dozens of ramekin sizes, or the different handle colors of Opinel paring knives.

If you’re not a fan of Wizard of Oz cosplay and copping funnels as headwear, a kitchen supply shop probably won’t scratch any fashion itches, but there are scads of others out there that might surprise you.

Trade & Industry Supply

Tractor Supply Co. - You can find everything from snow blowers and wood heating pellets, to live poultry here, along with loads of durable, low-key chic apparel by crossover brands like Carhartt, Wrangler, and Dickies. No-brainer staples include Carhartt’s [very Balenciaga-like] knit balaclava mask, and this extremely affordable Dickies jumpsuit, but dig a little deeper to discover some lesser-known brands like the Muck Boot Company (check out these pretty gardening clogs) and XTRATUF. We’re OBSESSED with these exaggerated Chelsea-style rain boots.

Arts & Crafts

M&J Trimming, Michaels, Joann, and Blick Art Supplies are crammed with ribbons and beading, rhinestones, pins and hot glue guns (for making brooches, earrings, and laying down patches and decals), fabric dyes and markers, and even paint brushes for applying makeup. Not exactly ready-to-wear, but if you’re willing to put in a little bit of handiwork—like monogramming a vintage sweater with your initials—the results can be so terrifically gratifying.

Army/Navy Surplus

Military surplus stores like Kaufman’s are where you’ll find nylon bomber jackets, military fatigue and wool felt naval caps, cargo pants, utility shirts and pea coats—for not a lot of money, either.

Sports & Athletics

Sure there’s Nike, Adidas, and all the other obvious go-tos, but believe it or not, it was the quest for a sweater-like knit polo that led us to the prepster’s paradise at Wilson. Pleated tennis skirts, wide-leg warm-up pants (❤️ the contrasting sportiness of this elastic waistband), and varsity-style jackets make fun pairings with more polished, structured wardrobe fixtures like a sharply-tailored blazer.

If you’re feeling even more blue-blooded, look to equestrian retailers like Ariat and for tall riding boots, barn jackets, and slim-cut polos.

Lastly, ballet-core may have already hit its apex, but the influence and appeal of ballet in fashion is as enduring as French techniques in cooking. Dance supply stores and iconic brands like Capezio stock more than ballet slippers, too. Leotards and bodysuits, rip stop pants (which look incredibly chic with a thick and cozy cardigan), and ribbed wrap sweaters are all classic layering pieces.

Since launching in 1987—a now-legendary origin story that began with a classic western duster coat, and an ad placed in The New Yorker—the company has never strayed from its ethos to encourage its customers to “live their lives the way they wish they were.” It sounds more like a mantra for a life-coaching retreat, or a book on self-actualization than a fashion or lifestyle brand, but that’s the thing: J. Peterman was never about selling a single aesthetic reflective of its own brand identity, but rather a selection of atypical and rare items inspired by travel, adventure, and the romance of bygone eras, that became the elements for a J. Peterman consumer to forge her own singular identity.    

Sure, Ralph Lauren, with its countless aesthetic pillars—western, Hollywood glamour, nautical, polo/equestrian, athletic, All-American—offers a plethora of lifestyle choices too, but the sheer size and ubiquity of the brand makes it seem almost insincere compared to the limited inventory and small production runs offered by J. Peterman. What’s more, it’s easily obvious when someone is wearing a Ralph Lauren take on western, whereas you’d never look at someone in a striped chambray vest, or a leather shirt jacket by J. Peterman and know its origin.

Every few years or so, the brand might experience a surge of attention from its discovery by a new and younger generation, or as the momentary fixation of a super-niche meme or trend. With the 2023 re-release of Titanic in commemoration of the film’s 25th anniversary, there was an uptick in interest in J. Peterman’s replica of that fictional raft-sized ‘Heart of the Ocean’ necklace. But that faux 56-carat blue diamond neckpiece was probably one of the brand’s most obviously derivative pieces, whereas a jaunty capelet coat in vibrant houndstooth plaid, or an irreverantly chic scarf-accented trench coat may simply remind you of a stranger you once saw on your travels, whose indelibly singular style left a lasting impression.

A fringe suede jacket currently on the site (for under FOUR HUNDRED DOLLARS) reminds me of at least two iterations I saw at recent designer collection previews here in New York, and I’m currently obsessed with these Prada-like sunglasses, but J. Peterman’s offerings are far too anachronistic and iconic to ever find itself guilty of ripping off another brand’s designs. These are pieces that transcend time and trends, and yet they’re never boring.

And of course we can’t talk about J. Peterman without discussing how these items are presented and showcased: as illustrations, accompanied by the most dazzling, exquisitely-penned descriptions that read as living character studies. That charming capelet coat: Octavia drives much too fast toward York, where she wants to introduce to me her favorite bookstores—Minster Gate, Fossgate, Grimoire—before I catch my flight. In lieu of bracing myself for every turn and twist, I focus instead on her caped coat.

Then there’s the brand’s Counterfeit Mail Bag, based on actual mailman’s worn leather carrier (or so the copy will have you believe). The care instructions are priceless: The first scratch will kill you, but in fact, it’s the first step in the right direction: patina. So the sooner it gets scratched, nicked, bumped, dug, hit, squeezed, dropped, bent, folded, and rained on, the better. Really.

The best way to peruse these goods—item by item, one page at a time—are in the brand’s catalogue (aka, its “Owner’s Manual,” complete with edition numbers). My mom used to save these pamphlet-sized booklets of fictional excerpts for her nighttime bath, and now I do the same, with older volumes piling up under my bedside table. To a writer, these vivid, page-long tales are simply too good to let go.

Unlike Louis Vuitton and its likeminded peers, because J. Peterman has never been interested in occupying space in our monoculture, it’s been able to defiantly stick to its fabulously anachronistic ways—and vice versa. Even with the unavoidable shift to e-commerce, the company continues to pride itself on being extremely offline. There are photo images of the items now, but only if you scroll past the opening illustration. And I’d contend that if you’ve made it to that point, you’ve probably already fallen hard for whatever you’re looking at. Get the coat.