When we talk about fast fashion, we are mostly talking about the fabric. The kind that is poorly sewn together, in factories abroad, in horrible conditions, by those not getting paid enough. But this understanding of the word works in tandem with another potential understanding: How fashion has become, quite literally, faster.
The aesthetics of the later decades of the 20th century can all be easily defined. Bell-bottom silhouettes, vests, pantsuits and big accessories made the ’70s iconic. The ’80s are remembered by neon spandex, high-rise jeans, heavy accessorizing and an overall feeling of playfulness. The ’90s are memorialized for combat boots, denim, little black dresses and anything donned by the cast of “Friends.” Even the early 2000s, its fashion aesthetic referred to as ‘Y2K,’ is made distinct by its tube tops, low-rise jeans and glitter.
But when we look back at the 2020s in decades to come, it seems nearly impossible that any look, style or item will be able to accurately convey what was dominating fashion. No aesthetic seems to stick around long enough — and this isn’t a coincidental change, nor is it one without consequences. Social media, and the influencers at its stead, are to blame.
The lifecycle of a fashion trend has five stages: Introduction, rise, peak, decline and obsolescence. This cycle used to take around 20 years, from the initial debuts on runways to the eventual shoving to the back of closets by the masses. Now, a trend’s lifecycle can happen in a matter of months, with the rise, peak and decline occurring quicker than ever before.
Social media has changed the nature of how trends take shape. Rather than certain silhouettes or styles trending, it’s particular items or brands that trend. When content of a particular item goes viral — whether that be in a TikTok that gets a million likes, an Instagram post by a big name or a random photo that goes viral on Pinterest — admirers don’t just draw inspiration; they want to own exactly what they see, so they buy it in swarms. The ease with which links and brands can be shared on social media also facilitates this mass consumption of the same items.
But the mass purchasing of trending items works directly against much of what fashion seeks to accomplish. One of fashion’s prime goals is encouraging individual expression, and as the spread of trends becomes more rapid and uniform, trends fail to meet this goal at increasing speed. The sooner everyone has the exact same thing, the sooner it becomes tacky and outdated. Those that we draw fashion inspiration from seek to stay ahead of the curve, and the faster that the trends they set get copied exactly, the quicker they then must move on. And then, we all follow. It is a horrible cycle on an infinite loop.
Fast fashion (in its traditional sense) certainly contributes to the problem. In addition to people purchasing items in waves, there has also been a rise — though it could be more accurately defined as a co-opting of “dupe culture.” Dupe culture at its best is positive, helping people find affordable alternatives to big brand items. Properly-functioning dupe culture would be if you referred to an article on Elle offering more budget friendly alternatives to, say Dior’s $40 lip glow oil. TikTok influencers love to promote “dupes” when what they’re really promoting are knock offs: Fast fashion brands stealing designs and making cheap remakes. Influencers are also incentivized to do so, often directing their followers to purchase their promoted dupe through their Amazon storefronts, through which they receive a percentage of the profits.
Fast fashion, however, is not alone to blame. It’s often the part of the fashion universe that gets most targeted in conversations around climate change, and justly so, given that the industry is responsible for 10% of global carbon emissions. The fashion industry is also detrimental to the environment as a result of overconsumption, a problem not erased just because you buy brand name. How much you buy has just as much relevance as what it is you’re buying, and as trends evolve quicker, we all buy more.
Certainly, buying from a fast fashion brand is far worse than buying ethically, but micro trends can be indulged in at all price points. Take House of Sunny, for example, a sustainable brand that defines their “ethos as slow fashion,” and only releases two collections a year so as to limit their production. The brand’s aesthetic has remained pretty consistent through the years, sticking to similar pastel, bright color pallets and trippy, fluid patterns. House of Sunny would find itself at the center of viral attention in the summer of 2020, after Kendall Jenner posted a photo in their Hockney dress and instantly made it go viral. The dress itself cost just more than $100, though cheaper knockoffs would quickly follow suit, and take over my For You page and Instagram feed. The dress itself, however, as well as the entire aesthetical cannon to which it belonged, were scarcely worn the following summer. Everyone had moved on. And this was not an ethical failing on the part of the company; it was a failing by consumers.
Responsible consumption requires straying from the herd and resisting the perpetual onslaught of messaging we receive about the need to consume. The constant trending of new items has far less to do with fashion itself, and far more to do with the profit-driven models of the platforms that feed us this content. Capitalism thrives when we’re made to constantly feel like we’re lacking, and the rate at which trends evolve has meant we’re all lacking all the time.
Lila Dominus is an Opinion Columnist writing about privacy, digital culture, and gender. She can be reached at ldominus@umich.edu.
