“Don’t look yet,” the stylist commanded, adjusting something on the model’s outfit. “I’m doing the ice cube thing.”
I was sitting in the corner of a photography studio in Chelsea, supposedly inconspicuous, taking notes for a behind-the-scenes feature on a major fashion brand’s campaign shoot. I’d been instructed to observe but not interfere, which was proving difficult as I watched this bizarre ritual unfold with mounting curiosity.
The model—a statuesque woman who had the rare quality of looking both impossibly ethereal and completely ordinary depending on the angle—stood patiently in a silk blouse that probably cost more than my monthly rent. The stylist approached with what appeared to be… an ice cube? He proceeded to run it quickly along specific areas of the blouse—the seams under the arms, the button placket, and around the collar.
“What are you doing?” I finally blurted out, journalistic objectivity abandoned in favor of pure fashion nosiness.
The stylist looked over, not annoyed by my interruption but almost excited to share this insider knowledge. “The ice cube trick,” he explained, as if it were as commonplace as using a lint roller. “It shrinks the fabric fibers temporarily so everything sits perfectly for the next thirty minutes or so. Long enough to get the shot.”
The photographer and creative director nodded knowingly. The model continued looking bored yet beautiful, clearly familiar with this bizarre practice. I was the only one shocked by what seemed to be common knowledge in an industry I’d been covering for nearly a decade.
“We do it on everything silk or natural fiber,” the stylist continued. “Cotton, linen, certain wools. Not synthetic stuff though—that can get weird.”
I scribbled this information frantically in my notebook, knowing I’d just stumbled across one of those insider techniques that rarely makes it to public knowledge. The fashion equivalent of a state secret.
Later that day, I witnessed the ice cube deployed on three more garments—a cotton button-down that was wrinkling under the studio lights, a linen blazer with a collar that wouldn’t lie flat, and a silk dress with seams that were puckering slightly. Each time, the results were subtle but undeniable. The fabrics looked more polished, the silhouettes sharper.
“How long have people been doing this?” I asked the stylist during a break.
“Forever,” he shrugged. “I learned it from my mentor fifteen years ago, and she learned it from someone in the 80s. It’s just one of those tricks everyone in the industry knows but nobody really talks about.”
I immediately texted Emma, my most fashion-experimental friend: “Have you ever heard of using an ice cube on clothes to make them look better?”
“Like… to get stains out?” she replied, clearly as uninitiated as I was.
“No, to make them fit perfectly for photos. Apparently every stylist in the world knows this trick except me.”
“First I’m hearing of it. Try it and report back. I need DETAILS.”
That night in my apartment, I stood before my mirror holding an ice cube over my favorite silk blouse, feeling equal parts skeptical and ridiculous. Was I really going to rub ice on my clothing because of something I’d witnessed at a photoshoot? Wasn’t this how fashion myths started? Next, I’d be freezing my jeans or putting my sweaters in the refrigerator.
But professional curiosity won out. I ran the ice cube quickly along the seams of my blouse, the way I’d seen the stylist do it—not soaking the fabric, just giving it a quick, cold stroke. I did one side of the collar and left the other untreated as a control group (journalistic integrity requires proper methodology, after all).
The difference was subtle but unmistakable. The side I’d treated with ice sat flatter, looked crisper, and held its shape better. The untreated side looked fine, but slightly less polished in comparison. It wasn’t a dramatic transformation, but it was the kind of small improvement that separates “dressed” from “well-dressed”—the fashion equivalent of good lighting in a photo.
Intrigued by this initial success, I embarked on what my roommate Zach later called “the weirdest science experiment he’d ever witnessed in our kitchen.” I tried the ice cube trick on different fabrics, taking before and after photos to document the results.
Cotton button-downs: Definite improvement, especially around collars and cuffs. Duration of effect: About 45 minutes before returning to normal.
Linen dress: Significant improvement along seams that typically pucker. Wrinkles elsewhere remained (it’s linen, after all—miracles are beyond even the mighty ice cube).
Silk tank top: The most dramatic results. The fabric instantly appeared smoother, and the drape improved noticeably. Duration: About 30 minutes in normal indoor temperatures.
Wool blend blazer: Mixed results. Some areas looked sharper, but others didn’t change much. Conclusion: Works better on lighter-weight wools than heavy ones.
Synthetic polyester blouse: No significant change, and the water beaded up on the surface rather than being absorbed. The stylist was right about synthetics not responding well.
Cashmere sweater: Subtle improvement in how the neckline and cuffs sat, but I was too nervous about water damage to be aggressive with the ice. Fashion experimentation has its limits, and potentially ruining a $200 sweater is one of them.
Armed with these results, I decided to test the trick in real-world conditions. I had an important meeting with a potential brand partnership, the kind where I’d normally stress about looking perfectly put-together. I chose a silk button-down, wool trousers, and a lightweight blazer—all ice cube candidates.
Standing in my bathroom fifteen minutes before I needed to leave, I performed what felt like a strange pre-meeting ritual, running ice along the collar and front placket of my shirt, the waistband of my trousers, and the lapels of my blazer. My reflection showed marginal improvements in each garment—nothing dramatic enough for a stranger to notice, but the kind of subtle polish that registers subconsciously.
The meeting went well, and while I can’t directly attribute that success to my marginally more crisp collar, I did feel more confidently put-together. The psychological effect of knowing I’d employed an insider trick probably contributed as much as the physical difference in the clothes themselves.
Curious if this was really an industry-wide secret or just a technique known to a particular subset of stylists, I began discreetly polling fashion friends. The results surprised me. Every stylist I asked knew about it. Most photographers were familiar with it. Designers had mixed awareness. Fashion editors like myself were largely in the dark, despite spending our careers analyzing and writing about clothes.
“Oh yeah, the ice thing,” said my friend Tyler, a stylist for several major celebrities. “That’s just basic toolkit stuff. Like fashion 101.”
“I’ve been doing that for decades,” confirmed Simone, a veteran stylist now in her sixties. “Before that, we used to use the condensation on canned sodas if we didn’t have ice. Anything cold and slightly wet works in a pinch.”
“We call it ‘the freeze,'” added Marcus, who styles for luxury brand campaigns. “It’s especially useful for lookbook shoots when you’re photographing 60 outfits in a day and don’t have time for steaming everything perfectly.”
Yet when I mentioned it to fellow editors at an industry event, I was met with the same confused expressions I’d initially worn myself. Somehow this trick had remained contained within the styling community, despite fashion editors and stylists working side by side for decades.
The science behind the trick, when I researched it, proved fascinatingly simple. Natural fibers like cotton, silk, and wool temporarily contract when exposed to cold, especially when accompanied by a small amount of moisture. This contraction pulls the fabric taut, smoothing out minor wrinkles and causing seams to lie flatter. The effect is temporary—as the fiber warms back to room temperature, it relaxes again—but the brief window of enhanced crispness is enough for a photograph or making a good first impression.
“It’s actually the same principle as using cold water on a wrinkled shower curtain,” explained Dr. Elaine Chen, a textile scientist I consulted about the phenomenon. “The sudden temperature change causes a momentary restructuring at the fiber level. It’s not a permanent solution like proper ironing or steaming, but for quick fixes, the science is sound.”
This explained why the trick works best on natural fibers, which have more reactive properties to temperature and moisture, and why it fails on most synthetics, which are designed to resist exactly these kinds of environmental influences.
Armed with scientific validation and industry confirmation, I found myself using the ice cube trick with increasing frequency. It became part of my getting-ready routine for important events—a quick sweep of ice along strategic points of my outfit just before heading out the door.
I taught the technique to friends, who reported similar success. Emma now keeps a dedicated “fashion ice cube” in a small container in her freezer, claiming it’s “changed her life for exactly 30 minutes at a time, which is usually all you need.” My mother, initially skeptical, now swears by it for her silk scarves, saying it gives them “just a bit more polish” for important lunch meetings.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that the fashion industry is full of these small, practical secrets that rarely make it into magazine pages or Instagram tutorials. For every visible trend or technique that gets endlessly documented, there are dozens of behind-the-scenes tricks known only to the people who work directly with clothes day in and day out.
I started collecting these insider hacks, asking every industry professional I encountered for their best-kept secrets. The list grew fascinating:
From a costume designer: “Rubbing a dryer sheet on tights prevents them from clinging to dresses.”
From a red carpet stylist: “Shaving a pilled sweater with a men’s facial hair trimmer works better than those special fabric shavers.”
From a runway dresser: “Pinching the fabric of pants behind the knee while sitting down prevents bagging at the knees when you stand up.”
From a shoot producer: “Spraying a small amount of vodka and water on clothes between wears eliminates odors without affecting the fabric.” (Apparently this is standard practice for Broadway costumes that can’t be frequently cleaned.)
From a menswear expert: “Hanging suit jackets on the shower rod during a hot shower relaxes wrinkles almost as well as professional steaming.”
These techniques share common elements—they’re simple, require minimal special equipment, produce subtle but meaningful results, and for some reason, rarely travel beyond their professional circles into mainstream fashion knowledge.
“The industry has always had a certain gatekeeping of practical knowledge,” suggested Dr. Mira Williams, a fashion historian I interviewed about this phenomenon. “Designers, stylists, and other behind-the-scenes professionals develop these techniques through years of hands-on experience. They’re not necessarily being secretive—these tricks just live in the doing of the work rather than in formal education or consumer-facing content.”
This made sense. In an industry that often seems to prioritize the aspirational and aesthetic over the practical, these small functional techniques aren’t deemed glamorous enough for mainstream fashion coverage. Magazines and websites are happy to publish the thousandth article on “How to Find the Perfect White T-shirt” but rarely delve into the granular, practical knowledge of how to make that t-shirt look its best once you’ve bought it.
The ice cube trick particularly fascinated me because of its accessibility. Unlike many fashion “secrets” that require expensive products or professional equipment, this one needed only the most basic household item. It democratized a small piece of professional styling knowledge, allowing anyone to achieve a more polished look without additional cost.
I decided to put the technique to its ultimate test at Fashion Week, where looking effortlessly put-together is practically an Olympic sport. For a particularly photographer-heavy day of shows, I wore a silk blouse prone to wrinkling and a linen-blend blazer that typically showed travel wrinkles within minutes of leaving my apartment.
Before heading out, I performed what had become my pre-event ritual with the ice cube. To my delight, both garments looked noticeably crisper than usual. When a street style photographer actually stopped me outside a show—a rare occurrence for someone who spends more time writing about fashion than embodying it—I mentally thanked that anonymous stylist who had revealed his secret months earlier.
“What’s your trick for always looking so put-together?” a junior fashion assistant asked me later that day, eyeing my still-crisp collar with suspicion. “Your clothes never wrinkle.”
I smiled, momentarily tempted to protect this small piece of insider knowledge, to keep it within the new circle of “those who know.” But gatekeeping has never been my style.
“Actually,” I said, leaning in conspiratorially, “let me tell you about this weird thing with an ice cube…”
I’ve since mentioned the technique in casual asides during panels and interviews, watching with amusement as audience members discreetly note it in their phones. Each time, the reaction is the same: initial skepticism followed by surprised acceptance of something so simple yet effective.
The ice cube trick isn’t revolutionary. It won’t transform a poorly made garment into a luxury piece, or replace proper care and maintenance of quality clothes. But it represents something I’ve always loved about fashion at its best—the small, clever ways people have developed to make fabric (and by extension, ourselves) look just a little bit better.
In an industry often criticized for being exclusive and out of touch, these practical, accessible techniques feel like small acts of demystification.
They acknowledge that looking good in clothes isn’t just about buying the right pieces or having a certain body type—it’s also about understanding how to work with fabric as a material with physical properties that can be temporarily manipulated to your advantage.
I keep an ice cube tray in my freezer now that’s dedicated solely to my clothes. My roommate Zach has stopped questioning why I sometimes stand in our bathroom running ice along my shirt collars before important meetings. He even tried it himself before a job interview, reluctantly admitting afterward that “it might have helped, maybe.”
In fashion, as in life, it’s often the smallest details that make the biggest difference. A perfectly crisp collar won’t change the world, but it might change how you carry yourself in it—and sometimes, that’s enough.
