If you were to ever encounter 16-year-old Annabelle, one of the first things you’d notice about her was her wardrobe. 

You’d notice how carefully detailed her outfits were, as if she had spent hours the night before sifting through her crowded closet, hand-pulling the pieces that would best communicate her agility with fashion — her ability to scout a trend before it existed. Her confidence didn’t come from what she wore, but when she wore it. 

You’d also notice the dozens of fast fashion websites open in her browser as she scrolled during the late hours of the night, desperate to be labeled a word she didn’t even understand. Desperate to be chic.

However, I wasn’t confident. And I certainly wasn’t chic. Instead, I found myself lost in a facade, attempting to be an exact embodiment of a deceptive word that has no true definition. And, even worse, I had no idea who I really was.

Over the course of the past few months, a trend has taken hold of the TikTok fashion community. This trend consists of creators, most of whom are young women, curating lists of fashion items and fads that they deem chic, along with those they do not. 

As you scroll through the hundreds of videos beneath this simple search, various patterns appear. 

Chanel ballet flats, perfectly manicured French tips, dainty gold bracelets speckled with petite diamonds. Hermes Birkin bags, “old-money blonde” hair wrapped neatly into a French bun with a single gold pin. These are chic, even effortlessly so. But tattoos, large sequins, facial piercings, nails with nothing more to them than drug store polish. Imperfect teeth, chunky platformed boots, costume jewelry. These are not chic, and in their eyes, never could be. 

Apart from the details of each list, there are multiple obvious similarities within the creators of these videos themselves. Most are fashion-specific influencers with rather large platforms who present themselves as traditionally feminine, clad in the very same accessories they praise. They wear their opinions on their sleeve.

At first glance, these videos appear like any other outlet for women to voice their personal grievances with the vast world of fashion and style. After all, everyone is entitled to their own opinions. However, they also perfectly disguise a handful of the many issues plaguing the naturally competitive world of women’s clothing, identity and self-perception.

When online creators call positive attention to a specific selection of accessories and garments, they directly influence the emergence of micro-trends. When combined with the installment of fear in an impressionable audience, companies and influencers not only profit from the money audiences spend to fit in, but also off their insecurities. 

Because these fears stem from the ambiguity of what it means to be chic, consumers naturally feel the pressure to conform in any ways they can. And when we are spoon-fed a step-by-step guide by our algorithms, fast fashion markets thrive. 

In many cases, the self-perception of women is at their expense. However, not everyone is so fooled by these games.

Sophomore Schelby Schunk, a political science student at DePaul, said that while she personally ignores micro-trends and the subjective opinions of others, she believes they still pose a genuine threat to many. 

“I honestly have no interest in micro-trends,” Schunk said. “They rarely align with my personal style and the market for the items is usually flooded by fast fashion brands.”

Schunk feels the constant cycle of trends directly impacts how women view themselves, arguing that under capitalism, we learn to price our value based solely on how we look and what we buy. 

“Under capitalism we are groomed to judge ourselves based on the brands we consume and how we physically portray ourselves,” Schunk continued. 

“When a micro-trend becomes popular, you are encouraged to consume that product to validate yourselves to others, not to truly express yourself.” 

Our modern perception of chic is directly rooted in this phenomenon. Just as Schunk gathered, when we exist in a society that makes us believe our worth lies in the stylistic options we choose, we lose any sense of individuality. We allow materialistic TikTok trends to craft our desires and our sense of what feels unique to our character. If we are nothing but profitable tools to them, does chic even have a meaning? More importantly, does it need a meaning?

Kaye Regalo-Ogego, a transfer student from DePaul to the Fashion Institute of Technology, seems to have an answer. 

“I think chic is definitely a subjective term,” Regalo-Ogego said. “At the end of the day, the way you see and describe something could be a completely different interpretation through someone else’s eyes. To me, chic means one’s ability to use universal aspects in an elegantly effortless way.”

I believe she’s right. When the methods we decorate ourselves with are given unnecessary labels such as trendy or outdated, or chic or unchic, we imply that any way of presenting ourselves within these constructs has the ability to be wrong. We imply that if a person doesn’t conform to a predetermined set of expectations regarding their self-expression, they are lesser than. 

But when we open ourselves up to the idea that the art of fashion, personal style and self-expression is truly subjective and requires no singular definition to limit it, we free ourselves from the weight of others, whether it be their targeted marketing, judgement or perceptions. 

When algorithms become our closet and influencers become our stylists, we lose touch with one of the most sacred aspects of self-expression. Perhaps chic needs nothing to accompany it. Perhaps chic is meant to be beautifully ambiguous.

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