On Personal Style in the TikTok Era

And the joy of dressing for oneself.

When I moved to New York in late 2011, the city felt alive with a creative energy that fostered–and celebrated–self expression and personal style. This is one of the main reasons I felt compelled to move here in the first place. It was “cool” to be an outlier, it was “cool” to have personal style, it was “cool” to pull something out of your brain and bring it to life. Now, it seems, the majority of people are listening to the same few people on a tiny screen telling them to unravel their slicked-back bun and rob Nonna’s coat closet for a 70-year-old mink fur. As a result, we’re left with an army of clones, reinforced by an algorithm that rewards trend-based content and, as a result, disincentivizes originality.

Every few weeks–and sometimes every few days–the Internet churns out a new micro trend, and each one has its own, often bizarre, label. “Clean Girl,” “Blueberry Milk Nails,” “Quiet Luxury,” “Old Money,” and most recently, “Mob Wife.” Logging onto TikTok is a dizzying experience, even for someone who has Internetted (is that a verb?) for a living for almost a decade. Why can’t people just be themselves? I often think to myself, exasperated. But I think it is, perhaps, because they’re not afforded the space or the incentive to do so.

Growing up, for better and for worse, I always had a very strong sense of self. From the ages of two through four, I would only wear leotards and swimsuits, save for when I was forced to wear pants against my best wishes. Like a magpie, I was strongly attracted to glitter, sequins, sparkles, and shine. I loved witches, mermaids, capes, Dorothy’s ruby slippers, and The Rainbow Fish. None of this is unusual for a child, of course, but it’s what I was inherently drawn to in the absence of external influence. Then, in first grade, I had to start wearing a uniform, and it didn’t leave much room for self expression through style, which has always been my favorite means.

On an average Tuesday at age four.

Throughout high school, I also had a strict dress code. I cycled through various sartorial phases based on trends (many of which I prefer to conveniently forget), as that’s what was available to me in my tiny hometown.

Up until the age of 19, when I began a fashion internship in New York City, my access to fashion was limited to monthly subscriptions to Vogue and Teen Vogue, and the images I’d reblog on Tumblr. And even then, trends were more seasonal, and took months to descend upon the Midwest, where I grew up and attended college. Everything moved at a slower pace. Consequently, I was forced to look inward, and really discern who I was and what I wanted to say through style.