Okay, so I need to talk about something that’s been driving me absolutely insane lately. Every year when Glastonbury rolls around, my Instagram feed becomes this parade of celebrity festival looks that are… how do I put this nicely… completely divorced from reality. Like, I’m talking about Alexa Chung in pristine white jeans and vintage band tees that somehow never get muddy, or Kate Moss in designer wellies that probably cost more than my monthly rent. Don’t even get me started on the influencers who show up in full glam makeup and flowing boho dresses like they’re attending a garden party instead of camping in a field for four days.
I mean, I get it. These people have teams, they have budgets, they’re getting photographed constantly. But as someone who’s actually been to festivals (including Glastonbury, twice, and let me tell you it was an experience), watching these curated looks feels like watching someone plan a beach vacation based entirely on resort brochures. Pretty to look at, completely useless in practice.
This whole thing really crystallized for me last summer when I was scrolling through festival coverage while literally sitting in my tent at Green Man, wearing the same pair of black leggings I’d been living in for three days because they were the only thing that still looked remotely acceptable. Meanwhile, I’m seeing photos of Florence Welch looking ethereal in flowing fabrics and flower crowns, and I’m like… girl, how? How are you not covered in mud? How is your hair still doing that thing?
The disconnect is just wild. Take Hunter boots, for instance. Every celebrity festival roundup includes at least three photos of someone in those tall green wellies, usually paired with denim shorts and a vintage band tee. They look great in photos, very “I’m outdoorsy but make it fashion.” But here’s the thing about Hunter boots that nobody mentions in these glossy festival guides – they’re absolutely terrible for actually walking around a festival site. Zero cushioning, they give you blisters within hours, and they’re so tall and rigid that you can’t really bend your ankles properly. I learned this the hard way at Reading 2019 when I bought a pair specifically because I’d seen them in so many festival style guides. By day two I was walking like a robot and had Band-Aids covering half my feet.
You know what actually works for festivals? The most unglamorous footwear possible – broken-in hiking boots or those chunky dad sneakers that everyone was making fun of a few years ago. Comfort over everything, because you’re going to be walking miles on uneven ground, standing for hours, and dealing with mud, dust, or both depending on the weather.
And don’t even get me started on the whole “festival hair” thing. Every year there are tutorials about achieving that perfect lived-in wave, those elaborate braids with ribbons woven through them, glitter roots that catch the light just so. Meanwhile, anyone who’s actually spent multiple days at a festival knows that your hair is going to be a disaster no matter what you do. The humidity, the sweat, the fact that you’re probably sharing one tiny mirror with five other people in your camping group – it’s not exactly optimal styling conditions. I’ve tried to make my hair look cute on festival mornings exactly twice, and both times I gave up by noon and just threw it in a topknot with whatever elastic I could find in my bag.
The whole wardrobe thing is equally unrealistic. Celebrity festival looks are always these perfectly curated vintage pieces – a rare Metallica tour tee from 1987, high-waisted Levi’s that fit like they were custom tailored, some ethereal slip dress that somehow stays clean and unwrinkled despite being worn while camping. It’s very “I just threw this on” but in a way that clearly took three stylists and a full wardrobe department to achieve.
Real festival dressing is about damage control. You wear things you don’t mind destroying, because something is definitely getting ruined. That vintage band tee you paid too much for on Depop? It’s staying home. The white jeans that look amazing in photos? Absolutely not. Instead, you’re packing multiple pairs of dark jeans or black leggings, tops that don’t show dirt, and a rain jacket that actually functions as a rain jacket rather than a fashion statement.
I learned this lesson the hard way at my first festival when I was twenty-three and thought I could recreate those Coachella looks I’d been obsessing over. I packed this adorable vintage sundress, planning to channel some kind of desert bohemian vibe. It lasted exactly two hours before I spilled cider down the front and then sat on something sticky. The rest of the weekend I was wearing my backup clothes – old jeans and a hoodie I’d brought “just in case” – while feeling totally underdressed compared to all the Instagram photos I was seeing from the same event.
The makeup situation is another thing entirely. Every year I see these festival beauty tutorials showing elaborate glitter designs, perfect winged eyeliner, flawless base makeup that somehow stays put through heat, sweat, and general festival chaos. The reality is that most makeup just slides off your face within hours, and you’re better off with waterproof mascara and maybe some tinted moisturizer with SPF if you’re feeling fancy.
I remember one year at Latitude, I spent twenty minutes applying this elaborate glitter eye look I’d seen on Instagram, using actual craft glitter and some special adhesive I’d ordered online. It looked amazing in my tiny tent mirror at eight AM. By the time the first band started at noon, half of it had migrated to my cheeks and I had glitter in places glitter should never be. I spent the rest of the day looking like I’d been attacked by a craft store explosion.
But here’s what really gets me about the celebrity festival fashion coverage – it’s not just unrealistic, it’s actually counterproductive. It sets up this expectation that festivals are glamorous fashion opportunities rather than what they actually are, which is endurance tests where looking cute is nice but completely secondary to basic comfort and survival. When you show up expecting to recreate those perfect Instagram moments and instead find yourself dealing with mud, rain, questionable toilet situations, and the general chaos of thousands of people camping together, it’s genuinely disappointing.
The other issue is cost. These celebrity looks often feature designer pieces that cost more than most people spend on their entire festival experience including tickets, travel, and food. Ganni boots for £400, vintage band tees that go for £200 on resale sites, those Isabel Marant peasant dresses that every festival style guide includes at £500+. It’s fashion content masquerading as practical advice when it’s really just another form of lifestyle porn.
What actually works for festivals? Boring, practical stuff that no one’s going to photograph for Vogue. Multiple pairs of the same dark jeans because you can wear them several days running without looking obviously dirty. Cheap tops from H&M that you won’t cry over if they get destroyed. A proper rain jacket from an outdoor brand rather than some cute cropped version that leaves your entire torso exposed. Comfortable shoes that you’ve already broken in, not pristine white trainers that will be brown by day two.
The whole sustainable angle gets ignored too. These celebrity festival wardrobes are clearly assembled specifically for the event, worn once for photos, then probably never seen again. Meanwhile, the rest of us are trying to make existing pieces work, figuring out how to style the same three festival-appropriate outfits in different ways over multiple days. There’s something to be said for the creativity that comes from working with limitations rather than having unlimited options.
I’ve gotten so much better at festival dressing over the years, mostly through making every possible mistake first. Now I pack like I’m going on a hiking trip rather than a fashion shoot – function first, everything else second. Dark colors, comfortable shoes, layers for temperature changes, and nothing I’d be devastated to lose or ruin. It’s not Instagram-worthy, but it means I can actually enjoy the music instead of spending the whole weekend uncomfortable and worried about my outfit.
The irony is that some of my best festival memories involve looking absolutely terrible. Dancing until three AM in muddy clothes, sharing someone’s rain poncho during a downpour, bonding with strangers over shared misery when the weather turns bad – none of that happens when you’re worried about maintaining some perfect festival look you saw in a magazine.
Maybe what we need is more realistic festival fashion content. Show me what to pack when you’re sharing a tent with three other people and limited luggage space. Tell me which high street pieces actually hold up to multiple days of wear in questionable weather. Give me outfit formulas that work when you have access to exactly one small mirror and five minutes to get ready before your favorite band starts.
Because at the end of the day, festivals are about the music and the experience, not about looking perfect for photographs. The celebrity looks are fun to admire, but they’re about as practical for actual festival-going as wearing a ballgown to go hiking. Pretty to look at, completely useless when you actually need to function in the real world.
Madison’s a Portland-based designer who treats thrift stores like treasure hunts. She writes about dressing well on a real salary—think smart buys, affordable finds, and brutal honesty about what’s worth it. Stylish, broke, and proud of it.
