Fashion is as contradictory as female gender roles. An outfit says everything, is she a slut? Is she lazy? Is she absolutely crazy? Every woman understands the feeling of not having anything to wear. They limp around in one high heel and one flat, rushing from closet to mirror, and while simultaneously stripping and accessorizing in between. ‘If only something would match the way I want to feel!’ Women search for that perfect reflection, that rush of high when a black silk tunic looks just right. The other night I could not find that outfit. I found myself frustrated in front of a closet full of clothes. Adjusting her hair in the full-length mirror, my friend Lauren asked, “Well do you want to look hot or pretty?” The proposed differences between those options are loaded with meaning. I looked down at the pile of silk and sequin encircling my feet, and thought ‘seriously?’ That is the thing about fashion: it sucks girls up and spits them out in thigh high boots. Shameful, maybe— but that euphoric high, the dopamine that surges through my body as I strut, is worth the search party. I found that outfit in a pair of jeggings, (a hybrid of jean and legging) a white tank, and a covet worthy chain linked bag. It was not until the next morning that I allowed myself to contemplate the question that had rolled naturally off Lauren’s tongue, “hot or pretty?”
There is something so demeaning yet empowering about that question. The empowering part is the simple fact of knowing exactly which outfit to wear to achieve the desired look. The part to focus on however is the demeaning, because within that proposed question resides the contradiction of female gender. Fashion is not just fabric massed together stitch-by-stitch, it is full of hierarchy and consciously ignites an identity crisis in every woman. There is a degree of participation, and commitment that distinguishes the fashionistas, from the mall rats. A level of reverence for Chanel and an utter disgust for BCBG. Those who worship the pages of Anna Wintour’s Vogue are quite different than those who flip through Cosmo. Fashion is a proposed freedom of expression, but that is as fake as Goyard bags in Chinatown. Fashion is just an easier way to distinguish social class, and with a city as diverse as New York, one is likely to be fashion road kill than obtain that ‘je ne sais quoi.’
Fashion is not as exclusive as it believes itself to be. It is one of the few worlds that every American participates in, regardless of class, race or gender. Every single person must throw something on their body, so naturally a hierarchy has evolved. Some women wake up and climb high into Louboutins, and others simply lace up their Keds. The differences between a coal miner who slings his overalls on, and a hedge-fund guy who fastens his Brioni suit off with monogrammed cuff lings, is merely levels of expectations and price tags. The fact is however that fashion is common ground. Polar opposites such as a conservative Christian fundamentalist and a liberal feminist start their day faced with the very same decision, ‘what to wear.’ The closet might just be the one place where both Barak Obama and I stand. The uniting threads begin to unravel though, as the cashmere separates itself from the polyester, and the ripped jeans become markers for blue collar. The proposed idea that fashion is a freedom of expression is a counterfeit thought, because what we wear, wears us.
