In this op-ed, associate editor Aiyana Ishmael explores the internet's obsession with what a person working in fashion dresses like. Especially with the sequel of The Devil Wears Prada — a staple in the fashion media space — making its return.
From afar, working in fashion appears to be an ostensible emblem of opulence and exclusivity, existing behind a golden gate veiled in chiffon, floating in the clouds, watched over by willowy heirs: their wallets deep enough and waistlines slim enough to wear the fantasy.
In the aughts, movies like The Devil Wears Prada and 13 Going on 30 shaped the public’s understanding of who works in fashion and what is worn. “Are you wearing the Chanel boots?” remains one of the most iconic lines for anyone who is even remotely fashion adjacent. We’re still witnessing the enduring influence of film and television, with a sequel to The Devil Wears Prada on the way, and the ever-increasing presence of fashion workers on the internet shaping the collective vision of what working in fashion looks like.
But, I’m here to tell you that what you see on the screen isn't always what you get, and perpetuating the idea that looking a certain way every day is the only way to make it in fashion could keep the creatives of the future out of the industry where they are desperately needed.
It was an unreasonably sweaty day in Harlem, late August of 2021, when I frantically double-emailed the former editorial assistant at Teen Vogue asking her for recommendations on what to wear on my big day. My first time stepping into the glossy offices of Condé Nast was supposed to signify the start of my sartorial rise. It would be the beginning of becoming a fashion maven, someone worth remembering. That friend shared a few simple suggestions: ASOS and anything I could get my hands on.
It was only after my first week, when I saw crisp denim jeans, simple white cotton shirts, and Sambas-Gazelles galore, that I realized the image of the fashion industry was a mirage and that the truth about what it's like to work in media, or design, or PR, was less tied up in what you wear to work every day.
It’s no surprise these myths have taken on a whole new life beyond film and television. A slew of insider perspectives of those “in fashion” are at the touch of our fingertips. With the increase of fashion influencers, especially those with the niche content focus of “Day in my life as a fashion student,” we’re seeing a centralized and almost creative nonfiction approach to what it means to work in one of the most glamorized industries.
By 2030, Gen Z will make up 30% of the total workforce. With the influx of aesthetics, trends, and cores, we’re seeing in real-time the ramifications of glorified fashion and ostentatious “main character” presentations in the workplace.
Podcast host Jenn spoke to this point in her TikTok video: “If you are not a front-facing person, you don’t need to step out in straight off the runway to convey respect in the fashion industry in New York. You can always spot who is a newbie because of how they’re dressed. The girls who are very young, green-eyed, bushy-tailed, and eager tend to wear the Emily in Paris-type fits.”
She went on to say that some of the most notable fashion creatives, like Grace Coddington, wore a simple uniform to work because they weren’t the main focus — the art was.
There’s a popular narrative online that working in fashion means dressing to the nines every day — but that’s more caricature than reality. Yes, the designer labels are everywhere (why wouldn’t they be in a fashion office?), but that doesn’t mean you have to be elite to belong. Some people are wearing archival runway, others are in thrifted denim or pieces they scored on sale from Ssense. The truth is, looking the part is not one-size-fits-all. Flashiness isn’t a daily requirement to be taken seriously, even if social media can make it seem like there is a rigid dress code. Fashion, at its core, has always been about personal style, not just price tags.
It is easy to get lost in the superfluousness of the world when you’re standing next to an influencer attending the same runway show as you during Fashion Week, wearing stiletto heels, a thousand-dollar dress, and professionally done makeup as they hop in and out of Ubers. But in this ecosystem, we all serve different purposes. Back in 2021, as an assistant, my glamour of sitting in the second row at fashion shows was often composed of errand runs and picking up pieces for my boss to wear that week. If I tried rushing onto the subway in those same influencer shoes, carrying clothes that cost more than my rent, I’d be benched with a sprained ankle instead of doing my intended work.
This concept of fashion people all “dressing the part” exists in a vacuum that those constantly fighting for diversity and equity in the space cannot subscribe to. To admit that seeing someone wearing a muted uniform to work at their flashy fashion job isn’t what you expect of said person is to legitimize the idea of class consciousness, exclusivity, and the idea that certain people shouldn’t be in those same spaces if they cannot afford to look like it.
As a plus-size Black woman, I never committed myself to this arbitrary belief that the clothes I wear define the words I write or the impact I make. That stood true at the beginning of my career and does now, too. The compliment that all fashion people dream of, came on the day I wore a $90 Eloquii dress. It wasn’t the look, it was the confidence.
Amidst a cycle of superficial trends, it’s easy to get lost in the pressure to look a certain way, especially when chasing a career in fashion. There is no one way to dress, but there is something powerful in spending time early on in your career figuring out what feels inherently true to you at your core — and letting personal style find you, versus wearing a peacocked version of what you think working in fashion is supposed to look like.
It's about creativity and personal identity, not a price tag or a designer name. Gen Z is already reshaping what workplace style looks like, but let authenticity guide you, not what the internet considers “fashionable enough” to belong.
