I’ve felt like an outsider most of my life. I wasn’t very popular growing up, and I was diagnosed with a neurodevelopmental disorder before I was 30. But in 2007, I experienced social salvation thanks to Blair Waldorf. When the original Gossip Girl aired, everyone at my school was talking about it, and I finally gained acceptance among my fashion-obsessed classmates by adopting Blair’s trademark preppy style. In today’s TikTok- and Pinterest-obsessed world, we’d call this Blaircore. For 15-year-old me, Blaircore became a nonverbal way of bonding with other girls, a kind of social cue. And it was how I got through my last few years of school.
Fast forward to 2024, and it’s all a prelude to the “core” or “aesthetic” or the type of “girl” you could be — if you follow the guidelines set forth by the internet’s most talked-about content creators. Gen Z’s tendency to box out niche fashion styles like balletcore (imagine off-duty dancers) and quiet luxury (high-quality clothing without logos) are the latest stars in the world of self-discovery. But is it a good thing?
You’ve probably heard the term “clean girl aesthetic,” characterized by glowing skin, slicked back hair, and minimalist outfits. Or maybe you’ve seen influencers dressed in cottagecore, visually expressed as romantic maxi dresses, basket bags, and lace. Every tiny style persona has been memed and “starter-packed” into thousands of digital mood boards, Reels, and TikTok tutorials on how to achieve a certain look. Dark Academia, Office Siren, Goopcore, Coquette. The looks are limitless, as are the “must-have” items and brand names that come bundled with each one.
I’ve realized that many of us aren’t so different from our impressionable teenage selves, blindly copying others, especially when it comes to our clothing. In my book, Why Have Nothing to Wear?, I ask readers: How old do you feel when you get stressed out about shopping? No matter what age, no one can stop thinking about whether their outfit will be accepted by their peers. If we’ve truly outgrown our high school selves, why do social media-driven “aesthetics” dictate our shopping decisions more than ever before?
The power of trends
The birthplace of this phenomenon is TikTok, run by young fashion enthusiasts whose main hobby (or full-time job) is posting their unique styles online. It is a fluid, community-based effort that produces “cores” by drawing inspiration from each other. “Cores are different from ‘usual trends,’ which tend to start with celebrities. With cores, they can really come from anywhere,” says Lolade Omole, a student in London. This illustrates why TikTok trends are so influential on our shopping habits. They have the authenticity and relevance that we have long been missing from online content.
Fast fashion brands have been quick to jump on this “core” craze. It is thanks to the mass production, low price, low quality production model of fast fashion that we, as shoppers, are able to jump on the conveyor belt of style stereotypes. The goal of these brands is not to sell high quality, long lasting clothes, but to sell “dreams”. For the “bargain” price of £29.99, you get a dress that is wrapped up in the fantasy of wearing red gingham and white linen while picking fresh basil for a traditional salad in Italy. The aesthetic is called Tomato Girl. The pitfall with this is that these “cores” are so tied to a fictional lifestyle that it translates to longevity, or lack thereof. Tomato Girl and its summery vibes don’t take much into account the fickle British weather, and this rapid consumption of clothing is having a devastating effect on the planet.
Moreover, this has an impact on second-hand sellers, who are at the heart of Gen Z shopping culture. According to Alice Timperley, a PR freelancer and Depop seller, “In 2018, trends were very stable, so my Depop stock was pretty similar for three or four years. Since TikTok blew up, new stuff is coming out every month. It’s a struggle because stock that was popular two months ago is now no one wants it.” Alice laments the rapid growth of the new aesthetic. “Because of social media, people don’t want to be seen wearing the same clothes as everyone else,” she says. “If people weren’t posting their outfits every day, people might be less interested in staying ahead of the trends.” The emergence of these cores and aesthetics is directly linked to a desire for self-expression in a visually-driven digital age.
The TikTok Paradox
TikTok aesthetics can both help and hinder our understanding of authentic style. They offer attainable styling ideas, as they are produced by “girl next door” creators working on an affordable budget, as opposed to what traditional high fashion editorials can offer. Fashion student Juliette Garnier suggests we shouldn’t box ourselves in, explaining that “you can take inspiration from different niches in the TikTok community and create something uniquely your own.”
Another way to reject the hamster wheel is to prioritize quality over quantity. Maybe you choose natural fibers over synthetics and inspect your clothes to make sure they’re well-made. Taking these steps will help you build a mental filter that keeps you from falling into the vicious cycle of spending money and creating waste.
I was jumping from aesthetic to aesthetic until my late 20s, but I finally got bored with fashion. I realized that the best way to find a community and a wardrobe I like is not to copy and paste trendy styles, but to embrace what I like. Some popular items don’t suit me, but that’s okay. Now I have my own style that I call “Slutty Grandma Aesthetic” and, of course, it’s okay to laugh (fashion should be fun, not messy, after all). My sustainable style includes 100% natural knitwear, mini skirts, and vintage-inspired jewelry. As for Blair Core, let’s just say that her wardrobe will always hold a special place in my memory. But I’m not tied to headbands and colored tights anymore.
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