For millennials everywhere, two of the most glamorous and terrifying fashionistas of the 2000s were the hosts of TLC’s What Not to Wear, Stacy London and Clinton Kelly. London’s Cruella streak of white hair, Kelly’s herringbone suits — the polish! The fabulousness! The way they would cackle over a hapless victim’s mom jeans and dated ’80s perm before literally throwing their whole wardrobe in the garbage — well, the meanest eighth-grader you know would have to work hard to be that scary.

What was most compelling of all about London and Kelly, though, was the idea that they could actually tell you what not to wear: that there were real, rigid rules to fashion, and you could learn them, if you paid close enough attention. You could learn to wear what was appropriate for your age, your profession, your physique; to draw attention away from the largest part of your body and toward the smallest; to put together a sensible blazer with a business casual wrap dress, no matter the occasion.

What Not to Wear ended in 2013 after 10 years on the air, and Kelly and London have both since distanced themselves from the brand. Last summer, however, they announced that they would be reuniting to host a new show on Amazon Prime, one far removed from the peak of 2000s body shaming: Wear Whatever the F You Want.

“The world has changed a lot since the run of ‘What Not to Wear’, and, thankfully, so have we. These days, we have zero interest in telling people what to do, based on society’s norms — because there are no more norms!” they said in a press release. “It’s time to celebrate individual style, not prescribe it.”

Somehow, the ethos London and Kelly were trying to broadcast for their new show has become the prevailing attitude in the style advice world now. Celebrating individual style, rather than prescribing it, is the new imperative. The phrase that people — or at least the thousands of influencers who have supplanted fashion’s usual gatekeepers over the last 20 years — usually use is “finding your personal style,” and they seed it liberally in the titles of TikToks and YouTube videos and Instagram reels. As in: “Outfits I wore before I found my personal style,” “Ted talk on personal style,” “How to find your personal style.”

It felt as inaccessible as the idea that I could theoretically make a mid-career pivot to acting and win an Oscar.

I first started seeing the phrase everywhere around 2021, just as we were emerging from pandemic lockdowns, and it felt like stumbling across a mystical and arcane concept: that my personal style existed somewhere out there, independent of my conscious mind, and all I had to do was get in touch with the tools I needed to find it.

Fashion-wise, I am what the kids would call a normie. I am rarely sloppy, but I frequently feel that my clothes could look better. Imagining that I could have a sense of my own style so precise and specific that I could describe it with words, could know at a glance if an article of clothing belonged to it — well, it felt as inaccessible as the idea that I could theoretically make a mid-career pivot to acting and win an Oscar. Sure, it’s technically physically possible, but what are the odds?

Nonetheless, I was intrigued. The discussion about finding your personal style comes with such intriguing promises. The TikTok influencers and YouTube vloggers say discovering yours will save you from falling victim to trends and the accusations of basicness that come with them. It will save you from wasting your money on clothes that you don’t like, or from contributing to the mountains of lightly used textiles that clog landfills. It’s an idea that I find profoundly seductive — and, because it is so seductive, I also find myself profoundly suspicious of it.

When did we all get so obsessed with personal style, anyway?

At the outset of this decade, as fast fashion and TikTok converged, the trend cycle started to move very fast indeed. An abbreviated list of the styles that have risen and fallen and perhaps risen again in the last few years: pleated skirts, mini skirts, midi skirts; cardigans, ladyjackets, puffer jackets, trench coats; prairie dresses, maxi dresses, shift dresses; high-waisted pants, low-rise jeans, barrel cuts, boot cuts, flared trousers; tucked-in sweaters, crop tops, bralettes; lug-soled loafers, knee-high boots, platform shoes, gladiator sandals, etc., etc.

Part of the reason the idea of finding your personal style gained such currency is that it presents an antidote to this impossibly frenetic cycle. “It bubbled up first for me on TikTok and social media,” says Rachel Tashjian, fashion critic for the Washington Post. “People would say, ‘Okay, I’m getting really fed up with all of these micro trends.’ The reaction to that is to say, ‘Don’t follow these trends, but instead find your personal style.’”

One of those making the argument that it’s both more personally fulfilling and sustainable to get off the trend treadmill is Alyssa Beltempo, a slow fashion stylist and YouTube content creator. “When you know what you love, it’s a lot harder to be swayed by what’s new and what’s trending,” Beltempo says. What she means is that when you have a sense of taste divorced from the trend of the hour, you will be less tempted to buy a $20 polyester ruched milkmaid dress from Shein the next time cottagecore fashion blows up on TikTok, wear it once, and then throw it out.

This is a realistic option, right? ✨🧚🏻‍♂️🌲 Also if my dogs could be immortal and/or become my dragons that would be cool too 🐉 . . . . . . #cottagecore #cottagecorefashion #cottagecorestyle #romanticizeyourlife #romanticstyle #fairycore

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