Fashion and Class: Can Clothes Ever Be Truly Classless?

6 Feb

Written By S

Fashion has always been a language spoken in dialects of wealth and status. A crisp Savile Row suit whispers old money, a Chanel handbag shouts nouveau riche, and a knock-off designer belt screams aspiration with a touch of desperation. Whether we like it or not, what we wear is stitched with implications of class. Even the decision to reject fashion is a statement in itself, like tech billionaires dressing like permanently lost backpackers. But can clothes ever be truly classless? Can we ever escape the unspoken hierarchies woven into our wardrobes?

The Myth of the Classless Wardrobe

There’s a seductive fantasy that fashion can be democratic, that a plain white T-shirt or a pair of jeans can be worn by everyone, regardless of income or background. But a white T-shirt from Zara and a white T-shirt from The Row may look the same to the untrained eye, yet the gulf between them is as wide as that between a fast-food burger and a Michelin-starred meal. It’s not just about fabric and craftsmanship; it’s about what they signify.

Because fashion is never just about clothes. Clothes are stories, statements, secrets. A plain white T-shirt is not plain at all — it carries, invisibly, the weight of context. One is an afterthought, bought in a multipack, tossed into the washing machine without care. The other is an object of reverence, hand-washed in cold water, laid flat to dry like a pressed flower between the pages of a book. One is worn because it is affordable; the other because it is expensive. The difference is not just in the stitches but in the space it occupies in the mind of the wearer.

Clothes exist within an economic ecosystem where branding, material, and exclusivity dictate their place in the class hierarchy. Even when stripped of logos, certain garments betray their origins through cut, drape, and the almost imperceptible details that whisper rather than scream. A wealthy person does not need a logo to signal wealth; they need only the right fabric weight, the right shade of white, the right ease of fit; casual but never sloppy, effortless but never accidental. It is the difference between a rich man’s “I just threw this on” and a poor man’s “this is all I own.” The promise of a classless wardrobe is a mirage — like a designer bag without a logo, the absence of branding only makes those in the know more aware of what they’re looking at.

Even when fashion attempts to strip away status markers, they have a way of creeping back in. Minimalism, for example, the aesthetic of choice for those who wish to transcend trends, to live outside of the consumerist cycle. A white T-shirt, black trousers, an unadorned trench coat. A wardrobe reduced to its bare essentials, free from the noise of logos or seasonal whims. And yet, this too is a class statement. Minimalism is only effortless for those who can afford for it to be. A perfectly cut white T-shirt, a pair of timeless leather loafers — these things cost money. True minimalism, true detachment from consumption, would be wearing whatever is available, whatever is cheapest, whatever is handed down or left behind. But that, of course, is not an aesthetic at all, it is simply poverty.

Even normcore, that great anti-fashion movement, was only ever fashion in disguise. The premise was simple: dress like a dad from the 90s, blend into the background, reject the tyranny of style. But to reject fashion is still to participate in it, just as silence in a conversation is still a response. The movement was pioneered not by working-class individuals who had always dressed that way out of necessity, but by those who had the luxury of choosing to. The irony was that normcore never actually erased class distinctions; it merely repackaged them. A billionaire in a grey hoodie and dad jeans is still a billionaire, his wealth evident not in the clothes themselves but in their fit, their fabric, the way they sit just right on a body that has never known a poor night’s sleep. It was never about true anonymity but about the illusion of it — an invisibility cloak that only worked for those who could afford to disappear. Irony, after all, is a privilege, and so is blending in on purpose.

And this is where the myth of the classless wardrobe unravels completely. Clothing is not neutral. It cannot be. Even the most unassuming garments tell a story, even the simplest choices are loaded with meaning. A white T-shirt is never just a white T-shirt — it is a symbol, a code, a quiet announcement of where one stands in the world. And for as long as class exists, fashion will never be free of it.

The Great Equaliser? The Myth of Uniformity

Some argue that uniforms, for example school uniforms, military dress, or corporate suits, eradicate class distinctions. In theory, if everyone wears the same thing, status should disappear. A sea of identical blazers, pressed trousers, and polished shoes should render everyone equal, dissolving economic disparity into a neatly pleated illusion. The idea has an alluring simplicity to it, a vision of equality where outward appearances are stripped of their markers of privilege. But reality, as ever, is more complicated, and uniformity in fashion only amplifies subtle differences. What we wear might seem uniform, but the nuances, those tiny differences that many don't even notice, speak volumes.

A school uniform at Eton is not the same as a school uniform at a struggling comprehensive. Both institutions might enforce a rigid dress code, but the type of fabric, the fit of the blazer, the stitching on the collar — they all reveal something deeper than the external surface. At Eton, a blazer is cut from the finest wool, the kind that drapes effortlessly over the shoulders of the wearer, signalling not only wealth but also access to generations of privilege. The tie, crisp and perfectly knotted, speaks of an unbroken tradition, an inherited knowledge of how to dress with dignity. Contrast that with the uniforms in less privileged schools, where even the most earnest attempts at neatness are thwarted by poor-quality materials and ill-fitting cuts. The same basic shape is there, but it hangs differently, betraying the economic chasm that lies beneath.

This contrast extends beyond the school gates. The black suit, a seemingly universal garment, also comes with its own class code. A black suit from Armani doesn't just sit on the body differently; it moves with it, it breathes with it, as though the fabric itself were alive. Its precision-cut lines and soft, luxurious wool give off an aura of refinement and control. But a black suit from a department store rack is, in many ways, a different creature altogether. Though its silhouette might be the same, the material is stiff, its seams too pronounced, its drape awkward. Even the act of wearing it — the way it pulls at the chest, creases under the arms, and hangs too rigidly from the shoulders — betrays its origins. The subtle differences become magnified when you consider the deeper connotations of its ownership. A suit like this is not merely something to wear; it is a symbol of aspiration, one that people don’t just buy, but rather acquire in a quest for recognition that can never quite be fulfilled. A suit, after all, only hides so much.

It’s not only the cut or the fabric that defines the difference between a designer garment and a mass-produced one, but also the way it is worn. The person who has been fitted for tailored suits since childhood knows how to wear the fabric with ease. Their posture, their movements, are as much a part of the garment as the material itself. There’s a confidence that radiates from someone who has never had to think about the shape of their clothes, someone whose sartorial education was woven into their very upbringing. Their clothes don't merely fit — they belong. In contrast, someone who didn’t have the luxury of a bespoke wardrobe walks into the same environment with a sense of self-consciousness. They adjust their tie nervously, tug at their collar, or fiddle with the cuffs, aware of the garment as a barrier between themselves and the world around them. They wear their clothes like armour, not as an extension of their identity, but as a shield against the insecurities that accompany dressing for a world that doesn’t always feel like it was built for them.

Uniforms, it seems, do not erase class; they merely encode it differently. The wealthy have a way of subverting even the most rigid of dress codes. They modify, they elevate, they tweak, until their uniform appears effortless, a carefully cultivated symbol of taste. A perfectly measured trouser break, a monogrammed cufflink, or a slight shift in the fabric’s sheen — these are the subtle touches that separate the truly privileged from the merely well-dressed. The unspoken rules of these silent modifications are understood not by everyone, but by those who belong to the culture of luxury and exclusivity. These alterations, slight as they may seem, are imbued with meaning. They carry the weight of heritage, of lessons passed down through generations, often subtly communicated in the raised eyebrow of an older family member who teaches you when it’s appropriate to leave the tie at home or when to add just a hint of polish to the otherwise rigid uniform.

In a way, the “rules” of uniforms exist to be broken, but only by those who have the knowledge to do so. The wealthy are the ones who can afford to twist the uniform to their advantage, using it to signal their place in the hierarchy, to convey a sense of exclusivity and control. Meanwhile, for those on the outside, the rules are just rules — rigid, inflexible, and undeniably revealing. The slight imperfections, such as the too-tight collar, the slightly too-short sleeves, are enough to mark them as outsiders, no matter how hard they try to blend in.

And then, there is the issue of how uniforms are acquired. For the privileged, a uniform is not simply a garment, but a curated object — a bespoke piece that reflects both wealth and taste. These uniforms are made-to-measure, tailored to fit the body in such a way that they become part of it, fitting seamlessly into the wearer’s lifestyle and identity. They are dry-cleaned regularly, replaced at the first sign of wear, and retired only when they are so worn that their status is no longer clear. For those without such means, however, a uniform is often inherited, handed down from older siblings, cousins, or even friends. It’s worn until it can no longer be patched, until its seams start to fray, and its fabric begins to lose its original shape. A uniform, in these cases, is not so much a symbol of status as it is a piece of armour, an attempt to blend into a world that never really intended for you to be a part of it.

The same item of clothing, in these two different worlds, carries vastly different meanings. For one person, a suit is a tool for conformity, something that signifies their place in the world and their understanding of its unspoken rules. For another, it is a symbol of aspiration, a hope that it might someday become a comfortable second skin, a sign that they’ve made it. But as much as they may wish to believe otherwise, uniforms do not have the power to equalise — they only reveal the invisible distinctions that remain, however well-concealed.

In the end, uniforms, rather than serving as the great leveller, simply become another means of enforcing the invisible boundaries of class. They offer the illusion of equality, but upon closer inspection, their true purpose becomes clear: they are markers of belonging, subtle codes that only those with the right knowledge can decode.

Luxury’s Contradiction: The Illusion of Accessibility

Luxury brands are masterful at weaving a tantalising illusion of accessibility, like a velvet rope that promises entry but only grants it to a select few. Capsule collections, designer collaborations with high-street retailers, and diffusion lines — all of these marketing strategies give the impression that high fashion is now within reach for everyone. “Look,” the advertisements whisper, “even you can own a piece of the dream.” These moments of ‘affordable’ luxury are designed to make us feel as though we, too, can partake in the world of wealth and exclusivity. Yet, like a mirage, this accessibility vanishes upon closer inspection, revealing the true nature of luxury: it is a realm for a privileged few, and no amount of diluted product lines can alter that fact.

The core luxury consumer remains, in essence, unchanged — a select group with the means and the cultural capital to consume the finest things without blinking an eye. These capsule collections and collaborations are not designed for the masses but rather for the aspirational buyer. They are offered as a taste, a diluted sample of what true wealth enjoys effortlessly, like a sip of expensive wine from a bottle that is, in reality, far beyond the reach of the average consumer. It’s like being invited to a VIP section of a club, only to find the velvet rope still firmly in place, separating you from the world that’s really on display.

The rise of ‘quiet luxury’ — a concept that has gained significant traction among those in the know. Quiet luxury is about expensive things that look deceptively plain, items so understated they could be mistaken for something bought off the high street. The philosophy behind quiet luxury is simple: true wealth doesn’t need to announce itself with ostentatious logos or garish branding. It’s a sign of refined taste, of confidence in one’s status without the need to flaunt it. A Loro Piana cashmere sweater, for example, may seem like a simple, unremarkable piece of clothing to the untrained eye. It’s not shouting for attention; it’s the epitome of subtlety. Yet, for those who move in wealth circles, the recognition is instant. The quality of the fabric, the cut, the artisanry — all speak louder than any logo could ever hope to. To the uninitiated, it may just look like another sweater, but for those in the know, it’s a mark of privilege, a silent signal of membership in an exclusive club.

But here’s the paradox: quiet luxury, rather than being classless or egalitarian, is a badge of exclusivity in its own right. It’s an inside joke among the rich, a wink that says, “If you know, you know.” Those who wear it are signalling something much deeper than just their taste in clothing; they are marking themselves as part of an elite group with access to the very best the world has to offer. The subtlety of quiet luxury only makes it more recognisable to those who already belong to the circles where such things are understood. It’s not about flaunting wealth; it’s about recognising who shares in the knowledge of its quiet codes. It is, in many ways, a currency of exclusion rather than inclusion.

The very act of wearing something understated like a Loro Piana sweater becomes a statement in itself, but it’s a statement that only works if you are in the know. To wear quiet luxury is to become part of a conversation that exists beyond the fabric, a dialogue that is only visible to those who understand its deeper significance. It’s not simply about the product; it’s about the cultural capital that comes with it — the silent understanding that you are not just wearing a sweater, but a symbol of your place in a very particular world.

*The Row Winter 2024 Lookbook (Photographer: Jamie Hawkesworth)*

This is where the contradiction lies. Luxury brands, by offering these capsule collections or high-street collaborations, suggest that they are opening the doors of their exclusive world to a broader audience. But in doing so, they are simultaneously creating a new form of exclusivity — one that is built not on the ostentatious display of wealth but on the very subtlety of its presentation. These items are not designed to be owned by the masses; they are created for those who want to partake in the luxury narrative, even if only for a brief moment. Yet, for those who wear them, the reality is clear: owning a piece of the dream doesn’t make you a part of it.

You may sip the wine, but you are still standing outside the vineyard.

Moreover, the idea of quiet luxury as a form of classless dressing is itself an illusion. Quiet luxury isn’t about erasing class differences — it is about making them even more distinct. It is a coded language, one that only the initiated can truly understand. It’s a world where “taste” and “quality” are not just aesthetic choices, but cultural markers that distinguish the elite from the rest. The promise of accessible luxury is a comforting one, suggesting that with just the right product, anyone can enter the world of the wealthy. But this, too, is a sleight of hand, a clever illusion that distracts from the reality: luxury is not about access; it is about distance. It’s a world that, no matter how “accessible” it becomes, remains tantalisingly out of reach for most.

In the end, the paradox of luxury is that the more it tries to open its doors, the more it deepens its own exclusivity. The capsule collections, the high-street collaborations, and the quiet luxury movement all reinforce the idea that there is a realm that can only be truly understood and appreciated by a select few. They offer a taste, a glimpse, but they do not and cannot bridge the gap between the privileged few and the rest. And perhaps, that’s exactly how luxury wants it. After all, what is luxury without the power of exclusivity? Without the silent code that marks the boundaries between those who belong and those who are left outside? It is this very contradiction, the illusion of accessibility within the firm grasp of exclusivity, that keeps the dream of luxury alive.

Can Second-Hand and Sustainable Fashion Break the Cycle?

In an age where consumption is often seen as the ultimate marker of status, movements like vintage fashion, second-hand shopping, and sustainable clothing offer a tantalising vision of escape — a chance to break free from the rigid confines of class and its sartorial expectations. The idea is simple: if we can repurpose, recycle, and reimagine fashion, we can transcend the class structures that have long been embedded in the fashion industry. The well-thrifted outfit, after all, tells no obvious tale of income; it speaks instead to personal taste, to a narrative of curation rather than consumption. In this vision, clothing becomes neutral, a common ground upon which we can all stand, no matter our bank accounts or backgrounds. But even within the promising realm of second-hand and sustainable fashion, the very idea of classlessness begins to unravel under scrutiny.

While the rise of vintage fashion, second-hand shopping, and ethical clothing offers a sense of rebellion against fast fashion, it does not, and cannot, entirely escape the gravitational pull of class distinctions. The rich, for instance, often approach thrift with a sense of leisure, carefully selecting high-quality vintage pieces that align with their already refined taste and aesthetic. For them, thrifting is a form of curation, a quest for unique items that speak to their identity, adding a sense of authenticity to their image. The practice is, at its heart, a luxury — the time, the effort, and the privilege of having the choice to shop second-hand for style’s sake rather than necessity. It’s an act that aligns with a cultivated sense of taste, a refinement that is not dictated by the market, but by personal and cultural capital.

On the other hand, for many in the working class, second-hand shopping is born not from a desire for style but out of necessity. Thrifting becomes survival rather than choice, a way to stretch a limited budget or to fill gaps in a wardrobe without the luxury of spending money on new, full-price clothing. It’s the act of recycling, yes, but it’s driven by practical needs rather than aesthetic aspirations. The working class might not see the charm of a vintage jacket the way a designer-conscious buyer might, because the value of these garments is rooted in utility, not in the appreciation of craftsmanship or the uniqueness of a piece. And though there are undoubtedly pleasures to be found in thrifting, perhaps even a thrill in discovering a hidden gem, these are secondary to the fundamental reality that, for many, second-hand shopping is still not a choice but a necessity.

This difference in intention — shopping second-hand as an ethical or fashion-forward choice versus shopping out of necessity, speaks volumes about the divide that still exists, even within the world of vintage and sustainable fashion. To shop second-hand because it’s “cool” is one thing; to do so because it’s the only option left is another. In the former case, the act becomes a statement, a deliberate, conscientious rejection of mass consumerism and the environmental damage that comes with it. But in the latter case, the same act becomes a form of resistance — resistance to the larger economic forces that force one into a cycle of waste and exploitation. The rich may wear vintage as a statement of individuality, but for those in less privileged circumstances, it is often simply a way of making do.

But even when we move beyond the realm of second-hand shopping, the question of sustainability in fashion raises a similar contradiction. At first glance, ethical brands, slow fashion, and organic fabrics might seem to offer an egalitarian solution to fashion’s class-based distinctions. After all, if we all begin to care about where our clothes come from, the materials used, and the labour involved, we might collectively break the chains of fast fashion’s exploitation. However, sustainability itself remains wrapped in privilege. Ethical clothing, whether made from organic cotton, recycled materials, or produced with fair labour practices, often comes with a price tag that is not accessible to all. To dress sustainably, in many cases, requires more money, not less.

The wealthy can afford to invest in high-quality, sustainable clothing because they have the financial security to choose slower, more thoughtful consumption. They can wear organic cotton and support ethical brands as a way of aligning their purchases with their values, without putting a strain on their budgets. For them, the cost of sustainability is often just a fraction of their disposable income, a choice made with little real financial sacrifice. Meanwhile, those in lower-income brackets might feel the burden of fast fashion, but they also face the very real challenge of accessing sustainable options that fit their budgets. For many, the alternative is not an ethical wardrobe, but one that is made of cheaper, mass-produced garments — many of which are designed to be discarded after only a few wears.

It is important to note, too, that it is not the poor who are filling landfills with cheap, disposable clothing. The responsibility for environmental degradation caused by fashion falls more squarely on the middle class and above, who cycle through disposable trends at an alarming rate. The abundance of cheap, fast fashion that dominates high-street retailers is primarily targeted at this demographic, creating a culture of constant consumption. For the middle class, the drive to stay on top of trends, to remain relevant in a hyper-competitive world, leads to a cycle of overconsumption that is as environmentally unsustainable as it is socially irresponsible. This is the class that contributes disproportionately to the fashion waste crisis, driven by the desire to stay fashionable while remaining within an acceptable social status.

Even within the sustainable movement, there is a tendency to overlook how privilege shapes the ways in which people can participate. Ethical brands and slow fashion, while admirable in their efforts to promote sustainability, do not always make themselves accessible to the very people who might benefit most from them. The wealthy can afford to spend on slow fashion and ethical brands because they have the luxury of time and money to devote to careful, conscientious consumption. In contrast, those who are struggling to make ends meet often don’t have the time or resources to invest in sustainable alternatives. It’s a classic case of the rich getting richer and the poor remaining stuck in the system that sustains inequality.

The underlying question, then, is whether second-hand and sustainable fashion can ever truly break the cycle of class-based consumption. Can we ever move beyond the boundaries that dictate how and why we buy what we buy? The answer, in many ways, is that these movements can challenge the prevailing narrative, but they cannot, by themselves, erase the structures of class that shape our consumption. Even in the most sustainable of fashion revolutions, class still plays a central role in determining who has access to the better choices and who is left with the scraps. Sustainability, as a cultural movement, is often as much about social capital as it is about environmental responsibility. The ability to shop sustainably is a privilege, one that is often limited by financial, social, and cultural barriers.

Ultimately, the rise of second-hand shopping and sustainable fashion may provide a more equitable alternative to the destructive cycle of fast fashion, but it cannot completely dismantle the class structure that continues to shape our relationship with clothing. As long as the cost of sustainability remains out of reach for many, the dream of a classless wardrobe will remain just that: a dream. The question is not whether fashion can be sustainable, but whether it can ever be truly equitable — whether it can transcend the invisible but ever-present boundaries of class that continue to define who gets to participate and who remains excluded.

The Political Body: How Clothes Signal Class Even in Rebellion

Fashion is an expression of power, identity, and belonging. Yet even in rebellion, clothing cannot escape the ever-present influence of class. The punk movement of the 1970s, with its studded leather jackets, safety pins, and torn T-shirts, was a visceral rejection of the status quo — a loud, defiant shout against authority and conformity. But as radical as it may have appeared, the movement was never fully classless. Punk’s key figures, such as Vivienne Westwood and Malcolm McLaren, were far from working-class icons. Westwood, for example, was the daughter of a telephone operator and, while she embraced the anarchistic spirit of punk, was also embedded within the fashion establishment she critiqued. McLaren, too, came from a middle-class background, his ideological rebellion often seen through the lens of privilege rather than true hardship. In this sense, the punk movement was not solely a working-class revolt, but rather a fashion-led appropriation of rebellion by the cultural elite. The anger and frustration that punk encapsulated — its rejection of polished, commercialised style, was packaged and commodified by the very same forces it sought to destroy.

Likewise, the grunge movement of the 1990s, which was founded on thrift-store aesthetics and a deliberate rejection of consumerism, was quickly co-opted by the upper echelons of the fashion world. Marc Jacobs, the genius behind grunge's transformation into high fashion, elevated the dishevelled, “uncared for” look into a luxury trend. The torn flannel shirts and scuffed boots that were once worn out of necessity and poverty by young people from working-class backgrounds became high-end, coveted items, sold to the very people who had never known the financial constraints that birthed them. Grunge, like punk before it, was no longer a statement of survival or subversion, but an aesthetic of coolness, redefined by those with the money to turn rebellion into fashion’s latest craze. The working class had invented the style, but the upper classes had the power to package it, market it, and profit from it.

This dynamic is far from new. Historical moments of rebellion and social upheaval have often been accompanied by fashion trends that purport to reject wealth and excess, only for them to be co-opted by the very class they were trying to critique. The French Revolution, for example, when aristocrats adopted the “peasant” look — breeches, simple linen shirts, and homespun fabrics, as part of their performance of solidarity with the revolutionaries. But this appropriation was a carefully crafted illusion. The aristocracy’s romanticisation of peasant life was still rooted in their privilege, and their imitation of poverty was, at best, an act of self-indulgent performance. The peasants themselves, meanwhile, had no such luxury to play dress-up. They wore those clothes out of necessity, not fashion. The aristocratic desire to “dress down” was not a genuine rejection of luxury but rather an attempt to engage with and capitalise on the populist sentiments of the time. Fashion, as always, remained a marker of class — only now, it was a stage for the wealthy to enact a rebellion they would never truly experience.

The rich have long been fascinated with the aesthetics of the working class, a fascination that finds its most absurd expression in “poverty-core” or “hobo chic” trends. Balenciaga’s infamous £1,700 bin bag, which was a high-fashion take on the cheap, plastic bags often used by homeless people or those who can’t afford to shop at luxury boutiques. The bag, of course, wasn’t intended to serve the same practical purpose as a genuine trash bag; it was an art piece — an ironic commentary on wealth and disposability, perhaps, or a deliberate play on the idea that anything can be commodified. But what this form of “rebel” luxury underscores is the privilege that allows the wearer to engage with “poverty” as a concept, rather than a lived reality. The wealthy can adopt a poverty-inspired aesthetic and remove it at will, discarding the discomfort once the trend has run its course. The working class, however, does not have the luxury of retreating from the very poverty that defines their existence.

To reject fashion is, ironically, still to engage with it. The very act of choosing to wear rags deliberately, to embrace discomfort and disarray, marks an engagement with fashion’s code, its rules, and its power structures. It becomes a statement, a style choice that places one within the framework of fashion itself. Wearing rags as an act of rebellion is a performance, much like any other fashion statement. It requires thought, intention, and access — both to the clothes and the cultural space in which they are seen as subversive. The wearer of ragged clothes, in this case, is no longer a victim of poverty but a participant in a narrative of rebellion, one that is once again shaped by the forces of privilege.

On the other hand, the person who wears rags out of necessity is bound by circumstances. They are not engaging in rebellion but are simply trying to survive. This distinction between choosing discomfort and having no choice at all is crucial. It underscores the difference between using fashion as a tool for expression and being subjected to the limits of what fashion can provide. The wealthy can afford to mock or reject the trappings of style; they can wear distress as a badge of coolness. For the poor, however, distress is not a choice, but a condition of survival. The attempt to commodify rebellion in fashion, whether it is in punk, grunge, or poverty-core, only highlights the inescapable link between clothing and class. Even in rebellion, fashion remains a signifier of who we are, where we come from, and the power we hold.

Ultimately, rebellion in fashion, like in politics, is never truly classless. To attempt to reject fashion is, in itself, a way of engaging with it. The punk movement, grunge, and the various iterations of anti-fashion are all reminders that even when we try to escape the system, we remain embedded within it. The political body of fashion, whether we like it or not, is one that is inextricably tied to class. And as much as we might protest its limitations, fashion remains an unflinching mirror of the world around us. Rebellion, it seems, is just another way of conforming — just with a bit more attitude and a few safety pins.

So, Can Clothes Ever Be Classless?

In the end, fashion is a mirror, and that mirror is gilded. Clothes cannot be classless because they exist within a world where class shapes access, perception, and meaning. Even an item as simple as a plain T-shirt carries the weight of its origins. A true classless wardrobe would require a classless society — one where wealth, status, and privilege no longer dictate the way we move through the world.

And so, we dress. We signal. We aspire. We pretend. Fashion remains an exquisite paradox: a tool of both liberation and confinement, a performance where the script has been written long before we stepped onto the stage. Because in the end, the clothes may change but the system never really does.

S xoxo

Written in London, England

6th February 2025

FashionSocietyAnalysis