When my editor suggested I let TikTok dictate my wardrobe for an entire week, my first thought was: “That’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard.” My second thought was: “I’m absolutely doing this.” Because after fifteen years in fashion, I’ve developed this weird compulsion to do things that might potentially humiliate me in public. It’s either a commitment to journalistic integrity or a deep-seated psychological issue my therapist hasn’t uncovered yet. Either way, here we are.
The rules were simple: Each morning, I’d cheque TikTok’s trending hashtags, pick the most fashion-adjacent one, and build my day’s outfit around it.
No pre-planning, no cheating, no matter how ridiculous. I’d wear these algorithm-dictated ensembles to work, to meetings, to whatever social obligations I couldn’t cancel. Because apparently I hate myself. Or I love content. It’s increasingly difficult to tell the difference.
MONDAY: #CowboyCore
Of course we started with #CowboyCore. The universe has a sick sense of humor, and I’m a Jewish girl from Brooklyn whose experience with horses is limited to a traumatic pony ride at age seven where the animal sensed my fear and tried to scrape me off against a fence. But the TikTok algorithm had spoken, and who am I to defy the wisdom of an app designed to destroy our attention spans?
I dug through my closet and found exactly one (1) western-adjacent item: a pair of faux-snakeskin ankle boots I’d bought for a music festival three years ago and worn exactly twice. The rest I had to improvise. I tied a silky scarf as a neckerchief, found an old belt with a vaguely western-looking buckle, and threw on my most fitted jeans and a white button-down tied at the waist. The final touch was borrowing my neighbour Emma’s straw hat, which wasn’t exactly a Stetson but had the right energy if you squinted and had consumed several margaritas.
The subway ride to work was an exercise in avoiding eye contact. A man in a business suit actually did a double-take, which is saying something on the L train, where I’ve previously sat next to people dressed as anime characters at 8:30 AM on a Tuesday.
“Going to a themed party?” asked Simone, our fashion director, when I walked into our morning meeting.
“It’s for an article,” I explained, which is the fashion equivalent of “I’m only doing this ironically” – the universal excuse for questionable choices.
Katherine, our editor-in-chief, just nodded as if showing up dressed like a Brooklynite’s idea of a cowgirl was completely normal. “The hat’s a bit much for indoors, don’t you think?”
I reluctantly removed it, which was probably for the best since it kept sliding down over my eyes anyway. By lunchtime, two interns had asked me if we were doing some kind of western editorial shoot. By 3 PM, I’d accidentally knocked three items off my desk with my neckerchief. By 5 PM, I’d decided that cowboys must have incredibly strong neck muscles and unusually high tolerance for fabric-induced sweating.
Verdict: Surprisingly wearable if you don’t go full Yellowstone, but the neckerchief is a workplace hazard around office supplies. 2/5 stars, would not repeat unless actually going to Wyoming.
TUESDAY: #OldMoneyAesthetic
The TikTok gods were kinder on Tuesday. #OldMoneyAesthetic I could handle – it’s basically my aspiration aesthetic anyway, despite having approximately negative old money. I pulled out my camel cashmere sweater (sample sale, three seasons ago), wool trousers (Zara, tailored to fake looking expensive), and penny loafers that I’d painstakingly broken in during a summer internship until my feet bled actual blood.
I added a gold signet ring I found at a vintage store that I pretend belonged to a fictional aristocratic ancestor rather than a stranger whose family probably sold it to pay medical bills. The finishing touch was slicking my hair back into a low bun and adding tiny pearl earrings. Looking in the mirror, I resembled someone who might use “summer” as a verb and own several horses named after Greek gods.
This outfit felt like cheating. It was basically what half of Style Compass USA’s staff wears daily, minus the actual inheritance and vacation homes. I strutted into the office feeling smugly confident.
“You look nice,” said Tyler from the art department, which from him is basically a standing ovation.
“Old money aesthetic,” I explained. “For the TikTok experiment.”
He nodded sagely. “Old money is just quiet luxury for people who actually have money.”
The outfit was perfectly comfortable and appropriate for my Tuesday schedule, which included a market appointment with a luxury accessories brand where I had to pretend I could afford any of their products. The PR girl actually took me more seriously than usual, which says something deeply depressing about how we equate certain aesthetics with authority.
My only complaint was that I kept having to resist the urge to call people “darling” in a vaguely transatlantic accent. Also, the fantasy was somewhat shattered when I had to eat my sad desk salad instead of having martini lunches at Le Bernardin.
Verdict: Would absolutely wear again, even without TikTok’s mandate. The aspiration to old money aesthetics despite being decidedly new poor is fashion’s most enduring tradition. 5/5 stars.
WEDNESDAY: #BarbieCore
Wednesday brought #BarbieCore, because God forbid I have two good days in a row. I own exactly three pink items: running shorts, a sports bra, and a cashmere beanie. None of these make a complete outfit, and certainly not one appropriate for the panel discussion on sustainable fashion I was moderating that afternoon.
Desperate times call for desperate measures. At 7 AM, I found myself in the 24-hour CVS buying a pack of pink disposable razors because they came with a free hot pink cosmetic bag that I could conceivably carry as a purse. The cashier gave me a look that said, “I’m not paid enough to care about whatever crisis you’re having.”
I paired my one presentable pink item – the beanie – with all white everything else: white jeans, white button-down, white sneakers. I added pink lipstick, pink blush, and pinned a pink Post-it note folded into a square on my lapel as a “brooch.” Was I Barbie? No. Was I a person having a nervous breakdown who happened to be wearing a pink hat? Absolutely.
The panel discussion was for an audience of serious sustainability experts and fashion industry veterans. I moderated while looking like an extra from a canceled Nickelodeon show, fielding confused glances from panelists who’d known me for years as someone who dressed exclusively in neutrals with occasional leather accents.
“It’s for an article,” I whispered to one particularly judgmental sustainable denim pioneer during the networking portion. He nodded with the exact expression people use when they’re deciding whether you need professional help.
The lowest point came when I had to conduct a video interview with an important designer directly after the panel. I contemplated removing the beanie, but journalistic integrity (or again, possible undiagnosed psychological issues) prevailed. The designer, bless her heart, pretended not to notice while her eyes kept darting curiously to my head.
Verdict: If you’re not already a person who incorporates pink into your regular wardrobe, attempting to go full Barbie will make you look like you’re having an identity crisis. Which, in fairness, I was. 1/5 stars, would only repeat under threat of termination.
THURSDAY: #CoastalGrandmother
Thursday’s trending hashtag was #CoastalGrandmother, and I’ve never felt more seen or validated by an algorithm. This aesthetic – inspired by Nancy Meyers movies and wealthy older women who own oceanfront property and extensive linen collections – speaks to my soul on a spiritual level. It’s basically what I aspire to dress like anyway, just forty years ahead of schedule.
I layered an oversized cream cardigan over a striped boatneck shirt, added wide-leg linen blend trousers, and simple leather sandals. I accessorized with delicate gold jewelry and the straw market tote I use for groceries. The final touch was a spritz of the most expensive perfume I own, which smells exactly like what I imagine Diane Keaton’s linen closet would smell like.
Walking to the subway, I felt a profound sense of peace. This was who I was meant to be – a wealthy divorcée who writes bestselling novels from her Hamptons sunroom while drinking chardonnay at inappropriately early hours. The fact that I’m neither wealthy, divorced, nor a novelist seemed irrelevant to the fantasy.
At the office, Katherine actually did a double take. “Harper, you look… relaxed. Are you feeling alright?”
I explained the hashtag, and she nodded appreciatively. “It suits you. Though you might want to avoid the all-cream ensemble during lunch. We’ve got that pasta tasting for the food section collab.”
She was right (she always is), and I spilled marinara on my cardigan approximately 4 minutes into lunch. But even that felt on-brand for the coastal grandmother aesthetic – slightly disheveled but too wealthy and content to care.
My afternoon included interviewing an up-and-coming designer whose entire collection was black leather and metal hardware – the aesthetic opposite of coastal grandmother. We made for a strange visual contrast, like someone had accidentally merged two different Zoom calls. But I conducted the entire interview with the confident energy of someone who owns waterfront property and has strong opinions about heirloom tomatoes.
Verdict: I’ve never been more comfortable or felt more myself while dressed for a hashtag. Will be transitioning to this aesthetic permanently, approximately 40 years ahead of schedule. 5/5 stars, perfect in every way except for stain resistance.
FRIDAY: #Y2KRevival
Friday brought the dreaded #Y2KRevival hashtag. As someone who actually lived through the early 2000s as a teenager with unfortunate hair choices and a body unsuited for low-rise anything, this was my literal nightmare. I still have PTSD from whale tails, visible thongs, and the time I tried to give myself chunky highlights using a DIY kit and ended up with orange stripes.
But commitment to the bit is my toxic trait, so I dug through the back of my closet for items I’d kept for reasons defying rational explanation. I found a pair of lightly flared jeans that didn’t quite qualify as low-rise but sat lower than anything I’d voluntarily worn in the past decade. I added a baby tee I’d received as PR merch that I normally sleep in, platform flip flops that had somehow survived three apartments, and – God help me – a butterfly hair clip I’d held onto for reasons that can only be explained as pandemic-induced nostalgia.
I looked in the mirror and saw my 15-year-old self staring back at me, terrified and wondering if boys would like me. It was deeply unsettling, like a portal had opened to 2002 and all my therapy progress had been erased.
“Absolutely not,” said my roommate Jade when I emerged from my bedroom. “This is emotional self-harm.”
“It’s for work,” I insisted, tugging at the baby tee that kept riding up to expose stomach that hadn’t seen sunlight since Obama’s first term.
“Your therapist would consider this a setback,” she called after me as I left, which… fair.
I had planned to go to the office, but while waiting for the subway, I caught my reflection in a grimy platform window and made a game-time decision. I texted my assistant that I’d be working remotely due to “unexpected circumstances” and redirected to the nearest coffee shop. I spent the day hunched over my laptop, wrapping my oversized jean jacket (the one concession to modern fashion I’d allowed myself) around my torso like a security blanket.
The final insult came when the barista – who appeared to be approximately twelve years old – told me she “loved my Y2K throwback look” and asked if my butterfly clip was “vintage.” I nearly threw my oat milk latte at her before remembering that I am an adult with impulse control and student loans to pay.
Verdict: Some trends deserve to stay in the past, buried alongside our collective trauma and Tamagotchis. The Y2K revival is fine for people who didn’t experience the psychological damage of the original era. For the rest of us, it’s best admired from a safe distance. 0/5 stars, would rather wear a garbage bag.
SATURDAY: #NightLuxe
Saturday’s hashtag was #NightLuxe, which TikTok defines as a moody, after-dark aesthetic featuring dark colours, silky textures, and the general vibe of someone who knows where the secret bars are. It’s basically the opposite of coastal grandmother, which gave me emotional whiplash.
I had dinner plans with friends at a new restaurant that was trying very hard to be cool, so the timing was perfect. I wore a black slip dress that I normally layer under other things to make them work-appropriate, added a tailored blazer, and heels high enough to ensure I’d be taking a cab home. Heavy gold jewelry, a dark red lip, and hair slicked back completed the transformation from cozy cardigan enthusiast to person who might know a cocaine dealer (I don’t, for the record).
“Did you get a job interview or a date?” texted my friend Emma when I told her I was running late. I sent her a TikTok explanation, to which she replied: “This is why you’re still single. Normal people use dating apps, not social experiments.”
The restaurant was exactly as pretentious as expected, with a doorman who looked us up and down before deciding if we were worthy of entry. For once, my TikTok-dictated outfit worked in my favour – I looked like I belonged among the beautiful people sharing overpriced small plates and taking discreet photos for Instagram.
The night took an unexpected turn when a group at the next table recognised me from Style Compass USA. “You’re the one who writes the honest fashion pieces, right?” asked a woman in an outfit that probably cost more than my rent. “I loved your take on sustainable fashion greenwashing.”
We ended up in a fascinating conversation about fashion industry BS, during which I completely forgot I was dressed for a hashtag and not for my actual life. It was the first time all week I’d felt like myself despite the experiments, probably because night luxe isn’t so far from my natural state when I’m not at work. Or maybe it was just the three espresso martinis.
Verdict: Turns out I’ve been accidentally doing night luxe for years whenever I have plans after 8 PM. It’s just the grown-up, slightly world-weary evolution of going-out clothes. 4/5 stars, would have been 5 stars if not for the blister from the heels.
SUNDAY: #CleanGirl
The final day brought #CleanGirl, TikTok’s obsession with minimalist, no-makeup makeup and slicked-back buns. After a week of aesthetic whiplash, this felt like the algorithm taking pity on me. Clean girl is basically just looking like you drink sufficient water, sleep eight hours, and have never sent a regrettable text message – all lies in my case, but aspirational lies.
I pulled my hair into the tightest, sleekest bun my fine hair could manage, which made my face look approximately 40% more awake than it actually was. Makeup was just tinted moisturizer, clear brow gel, and lip balm. I wore white jeans, a crisp blue button-down, and simple leather sandals.
My Sunday plans included the farmer’s market and brunch with Jade, who approved of this look significantly more than Friday’s Y2K disaster. “You look like you have your life together,” she said, which is the clean girl aesthetic in a nutshell – an elaborate visual lie about your organizational skills and hydration habits.
Walking through the farmer’s market, I found myself standing straighter, carefully selecting expensive organic produce I would normally consider a splurge. Something about the outfit made me feel like I should be shopping for ingredients for a meal I would actually cook rather than ordering takeout while watching reality television in my pajamas.
I ran into Katherine from work, who was there with her actual children buying actual vegetables like the functional adult she is. She looked me up and down approvingly. “This suits you better than the cowboy hat,” she noted, before adding, “Though I did enjoy the coastal grandmother day. Very bold office choice.”
Verdict: Clean girl is just adulting aestheticized for social media. It’s comfortable, practical, and makes people think you have your life together even when your apartment contains three half-empty seltzers and an overdue Con Edison bill. 4/5 stars, easy to wear but slightly boring.
After a full week of dressing through algorithms, I’ve learned several important things:
1. TikTok trends are designed for people who don’t have to ride public transportation or sit in fluorescent-lit offices.
2. Dressing for an aesthetic rather than your actual life and body is a recipe for discomfort and existential crisis.
3. Fashion becomes significantly less fun when it’s dictated by external forces rather than your own mood and preferences.
4. The coastal grandmother aesthetic is criminally underrated and should be acceptable for people under 60.
5. I will never, ever wear low-rise jeans again, even if Alessandro Michele himself begs me to.
The experiment reminded me why I fell in love with fashion in the first place – not because of trends or algorithms or hashtags, but because getting dressed is fundamentally a form of self-expression. When that’s removed and replaced with external directives, even the most beautiful outfit feels like a costume.
So while I’ll keep scrolling TikTok for entertainment and trend forecasting purposes, I’ll be leaving the algorithm out of my closet decisions. Except maybe for the coastal grandmother aesthetic. That one can stay.
