A path to disillusionment
Using many luxury brands as practical examples.
Sorry, this is a long one.
My friends know me as the one who’s always in a T-shirt and jeans. It’s my uniform, my constant, and it always will be. My style has been a true sociological experiment for most of my life. I've watched my mom get dressed, and she always relied on this simple combination too. I remember our summers in Florida or somewhere in Europe when she'd pick up a fashion magazine - or sometimes a gossip one to observe what was ‘trending’ and deemed ‘stylish’. Once, while flipping through its pages, she stopped at a photo of Gisele, effortlessly stunning in jeans and a white T-shirt.
“This combination will never fail you,” she said, with absolute certainty. “You just add accessories to make it better.”
My sister Hanna, however, has a different take. Maybe it’s a form of rebellion against our mom’s mantra, or perhaps she just likes proving that her style can outshine our jeans-and-T-shirt regime. Either way, her tastes lean in a different direction - and that's okay. To each their own!
For me, though, I’ve always loved fashion differently. I’m a perpetually lazy dresser, so I believe the beauty of fashion truly lies in the simplicity of it all; a well-tailored blazer, a perfect pair of jeans, a stunning denim shirt, a beautiful/crisp white button-down, and the list goes on. I’ll swoon over a perfectly done cheetah print - think Saint Laurent/Celine. I love suede, bangles, and fringes (think Bob Dylan?). I also love anything different. But at the end of the day, I’ll always choose my jeans and a good-quality white T-shirt over anything else. The fun, for me, comes from layering on the things I love. Call it basic if you want, but I know what works for me because I know myself.
I’m not one of those people who pretends to be above brands. You know the type; the ones who claim it’s beneath them to be loyal to a label (I know people like that and they are insufferable), as if it somehow liking something makes them a try-hard. But here’s the thing: I grew up in Brazil, where if you cared too much about fashion, you were considered superficial. If you didn’t care enough, you were thought to be lacking in vanity. There was no winning. You were always caught in this paradox, forever judged by others in a society where it felt impossible to navigate those conflicting expectations.
For a long time, I cared deeply about brands. It wasn’t just about the products themselves, but about what they embodied - the legacy, the visual identity, the narrative woven into each garment. As I was discovering my style, I found myself connecting with the stories brands told, almost as if they were an extension of my evolving sense of self. Take Saint Laurent, for instance. Its energy has always resonated with me: cool, effortless, a bit of rock ‘n’ roll, messy but polished. I would eagerly anticipate each trip to the US or Europe, using those journeys as an opportunity to add another item to my wardrobe - whether it was a bag, a RTW piece, or a pair of shoes. It felt like collecting chic souvenirs, each one imbued with a sense of place and time.
Yet, somewhere along the way, that connection faded. I’ve tried to pinpoint why, but the feeling always slips away when I try to articulate it. It’s a blend of apathy and ennui, I suppose. A big part of it, I think, lies in the state of influencer culture. ‘Haul-identity culture’, to be specific, has undermined the mystique of brands for me. Haul culture celebrates overconsumption, turning once-cherished items into mere commodities, diluting their uniqueness. Add to that the rise of identity-driven consumption - where every purchase is a statement, a conspicuous symbol of status - fueled by the omnipresence of social media. No wonder I’ve lost interest!
I’m not talking about the tastemakers, the real curators who shape trends with nuance and intention. I’m talking about the cookie-cutter influencers who treat luxury brands as if they were shopping at Zara. I’m also referring to celebrities, believe it or not. Especially the ones (you know exactly who they are) whose every purchase is designed for maximum exposure. These individuals, with their vast followings, have commodified the concept of identity; a concept very dear to many Gen-Z’s. Add that with brands trying way too hard, almost desperate, to not acquire this generation as consumers, but to remain relevant. Everything feels insincere and tiresome.
Khaite as a practical example
When Khaite launched, I was thrilled. It felt like someone had bottled my aesthetic: a contemporary twist on Saint Laurent with an edge for lazy-girl dressing - leather, occasional playful zebra prints, reimagined jeans, subtle heeled boots, cute 'going out' bags that also served a 'daily walk' purpose, and the occasional simple but reliable heel. It was my current wardrobe, with an extra layer of sophistication. I didn’t expect the pieces to be affordable, but I was curious to see what my ultimate style authority would think. I DM'd my mom:
“Look at this new brand.”
Almost instantly, she replied:
“I love these jeans already.”
Validation from the original jeans-and-T-shirt queen herself. It’s true what they say: some things never go out of style.
“But Rachel, Khaite did nothing new. There are tons of brands that do the same thing… in different fonts.”
Sure, brands like The Row, Totême, and St. Agni all embody understated elegance, but here's why I kept gravitating towards Khaite. While I admire Totême’s designs, I often find myself making extra trips to the tailor to get the fit just right. The Row’s pieces are undeniably exquisite, but once I’ve invested in the key staples - coats, bags, a couple of sweaters - I don’t feel the same urgency to follow their new collections. Many of their offerings are beautiful iterations of past designs, but unless I truly desire something specific, I feel like I already have everything I need. Khaite, on the other hand, used to hit different.
The fit is consistently spot-on—no tailoring, no fuss (at least for me)—just effortless. And as much as I love fashion, I’m a lazy dresser. What sets Khaite apart for me is its ability to layer sophistication onto basics. Think of it like a millefeuille cake: the simple version is perfect, but add a touch of chocolate ganache or something unexpected, and it becomes truly unforgettable. Khaite masters this concept beautifully. Whether it’s a touch of lace, a bold and sexy open back, or an unexpected pop of pink amidst a neutral collection, their designs never fail to offer a fresh take on the classic. Even the daring elements—snakeskin, for instance—don’t cross the overdone line but instead feel very intentional. For me, Khaite balances timeless minimalism with just the right amount of edge, elevating the everyday without feeling monotonous.
Over time, my admiration for Khaite grew deeper. Back then, finding their pieces wasn’t easy. They didn’t have the vast retail presence or expansion plans they do today, and physical stores were nonexistent. Still, I scrolled endlessly, hunting for pieces that resonated with me. There was something about the brand that felt like an extension of my identity - a reflection of understated elegance and intentional design. Each piece I coveted felt like a small celebration.
That same year, I decided to visit their sample sale in search of an everyday bag. I’m not usually one for in-person shopping hunts anymore, but something drew me there - and I’m so glad it did. I walked away with a bag for just $120 - an absolute steal - along with a pair of suede boots for $142 and jeans for $50. The thrill of finding these treasures, especially on the last day of the sale, felt like a sign. I’ve always believed that if something is meant to find me, it will - and these pieces did. That experience solidified my connection to the brand and made me feel like Khaite was truly 'for me.' After that, my affection for the brand only deepened. I found myself eagerly waiting for sales or, in moments of indulgence, purchasing items at full price simply because I loved the brand so much. What I’ve always loved about Khaite is what it represents: timeless, elevated basics designed to be adored and lived in.
Yet, I have to admit it: last year, my admiration for the brand waned almost entirely. I found myself bypassing Khaite when browsing the sale rack at Bergdorf Goodman. I stopped hunting for new Danielle jeans on The RealReal - or for any of their jeans, for that matter. Something had shifted in me, and just like that, my desire for the brand wasn’t ‘there’ anymore.
I’m not entirely sure when my feelings toward the brand started to go awry. I still think it’s undeniably cool, but that spark of desire has faded drastically. Part of me wonders if I’ve simply outgrown it, or if its meteoric rise in popularity left me feeling like just another follower in the crowd. Maybe I’m overthinking it - am I just being pretentious and annoying? Partially. The price point, creeping closer to The Row’s realm, certainly hasn’t helped. The designs, while still striking, feel like they’re missing the mark somehow. Perhaps it’s a combination of all these things, but whatever the reason, the connection I once felt just isn’t there anymore.
I’ll admit it - I can be a bit particular. Maybe it’s the Aquarius in me, but even my sister, the ultimate truth-teller, has called me annoying. One of my quirks? I tend to shy away from things that become overly popular. There’s something about seeing something everywhere that drains its it factor, leaving it feeling overexposed and a little too much. That's partially the route I observed the brand follow. When I started seeing influencers everywhere raving about the brand, swearing by it, professing their undying love, and flaunting their massive $30k hauls worthy of Khaite, my enthusiasm began to falter. It wasn’t the brand itself; it can’t control what the public does with its products. However, the hype around it was definitely a turnoff. It made the brand feel like a fast-fashion label—too ubiquitous, too… again, much for my eyeballs to take in. For me, part of the allure of anything lies in its mystique nature, and that endless parade of viral moments dulled Khaite's shine.
Celebrity Obsession As The Primary Factor
I think the not-so-subtle celebrity endorsement killed it for me, not just with Khaite but with every other brand, especially luxury ones.
There’s something undeniably refreshing about understated, authentic connections between celebrities and the brands they genuinely cherish. Jackie Sandler’s loyalty to Khaite, highlighted by Adam Sandler’s frequent appearances in SoHo with armfuls of Khaite shopping bags, feels deeply personal rather than performative. It’s a subtle celebration of her style - an intimate, ego-free expression that transcends status or trend-chasing. Similarly, Zoe Kravitz’s relationship with Jessica McCormack exudes a sense of harmony and enduring partnership. Whether she’s wearing McCormack’s designs in her day-to-day or on the red carpet, it never feels like a calculated PR stunt. Instead, it reads as a heartfelt ode to her aesthetic. When I visited Jessica McCormack’s London boutique in 2023, I shared with the sales associate how Zoe’s effortlessly chic styling of her jewelry had compelled me to seek out the brand a year or two earlier. That’s the beauty of subtle influence - it doesn’t shout; it resonates.
What completely turns me off, as you can imagine, is the exact opposite -celebrities who seem to thrive on overexposure. Of course, I understand that being in the public eye is part of a celebrity’s job, but there’s a stark difference between being visible versus engaging in relentless self-promotion. Take, for example, when Kendall Jenner is photographed strolling through Manhattan wearing The Row - or even Khaite. I can’t help but cringe; it feels performative rather than authentic. The same logic applies to Hailey Bieber; despite her undeniable influence, everything feels like an attempt to 'be part of the conversation’ at all costs to generate attention towards - either herself - or her brand. Everything she puts on feels perpetually ready for a click-bait headline in a fashion magazine. These examples of calculated attempts feel overdone and disingenuous.
What Did Influencers Do?
When I say influencers, I mean people that use rage-bait adjacent content such as ‘look at my $100k haul at Chanel’ and so forth - you know who I am talking about. I do not mean the chic, elegant, conscious, and amazing tastemakers we support/follow - just a clarification.
I don’t want to come across as someone outright bashing influencer culture, because - let’s be honest - part of its appeal lies in how it allows fashion to reach a broader audience. Like everything in life; influencer culture has its pros and cons. Influencers have democratized access to trends, ideas, and brands once confined to niche circles. That being said, there’s an undeniable ‘tension’ in how this same culture has distorted the perception of luxury and consumption. Partially, the brands need to take some of the blame. They believe most consumers appreciate their association with these influencers, therefore they perpetuate this promotion cycle.
This popularity, especially when fueled by gifting or sponsorships, can often feel disingenuous and quite honestly, tasteless. Opulence is not trending, so I do not want to see on my Instagram feed at 11 AM all of those massive influencers receiving another iteration of a Dior bag. Also, it isn't easy to believe in the authenticity of someone’s connection to a brand when their wardrobe is perpetually curated by PR teams (or when they appear to adopt trends purely for clout-chasing).
“In 2018, a huge push surrounding the bag’s reissue meant that it was gifted to dozens of influencers at the same time, resulting in a complete flood of the Instagram feed when they posted their photos in unison. Those were the days before the algorithm was shot, and Instagram still showed you chronological content from the people you follow. That day, Dior received millions of impressions on Instagram, though not in a manner you’d consider organic. I can’t confirm whether the influencers were paid in addition to receiving a Saddle Bag (currently retailing for $4,400), though I suspect they were, but this sort of rollout has proven to move the needle in terms of sales and build brand awareness. You’re nothing if you’re not talked about, after all!” Brilliantly put by
, the article is here and I strongly suggest reading it.
I was always so curious about these metrics. Brand awareness is great if that's all you want to measure, but how many of these people were you really converting? Dior loved to do these overly-exposed campaigns with major influencers like Chiara Ferragni. In the beginning, it was fun and novel, but then, it just became boring, repetitive, and almost predictable.
Feelings-wise, this lack of authenticity - from my POV - dilutes the magic of the brands themselves. What should feel special, personal, and evocative has the opposite meanings; fleeting, forgettable, and overdone. Seeing the same cookie-cutter luxury influencers and celebrities donning the same labels in what feels like a relentless stream of staged paparazzi photos or perfectly polished Instagram selfies, turned part of fashion into a shallow commodity. I'm a strong believer that overexposure erodes that ‘magic’ and je ne sais quoi, leaving behind a trail of boredom.
Real People, Real Feelings, Real Customers
My admiration for any brand is reignited when I see it in real people - people who embody the effortless sophistication the brand was built for. It’s not the $30K hauls or celebrities turning their feeds into mini ad campaigns that inspire me; it’s the subtle moments of authenticity.
I love it when a chic, elegant, and tasteful micro-influencer effortlessly styles Khaite's Danielle jeans with slim-heeled boots; it reminds me how transformative the perfect pair of denim can be. I also adore when the same influencer openly shares tips and tricks on how to shop for luxury items at the best times; highlighting sales and connecting with their audience in a broader and realistic sense. “Yes, you can consume luxury, but wait for this sale because these items will be there.” I also deeply love it when I see a mom of three on the Upper East Side, casually pushing a stroller down Madison Avenue, wearing a banana bag from The Row. Juggling three screaming kids, talking on the phone, whilst looking at Elysewalker's storefront. It's when my friend wore the most stunning Khaite piece - a sculptural, crystal-bedazzled dress that manages to be both a showstopper and incredibly wearable. It wasn't just a dress; it was the moment. She wore it because she loved it, not to perform for some cameras or anyone else. It’s the kind of understated elegance that feels lived-in, personal, and somehow more desirable.
While scrolling through TikTok, I came across Mosha Lundstrom's ‘NEWSFASH’ video, where she highlights two Nebraska doctors and VIC clients who became the stars of Burberry's holiday campaign. Cultured has an excellent in-depth article on the topic, and Lundstrom’s video provides a fascinating take as well (unfortunately, I couldn’t locate the video to link it).
The Stollers—Omaha, Nebraska-based doctors—have no connection to the fashion world, per se, but they do wear Burberry every day. “Nebraska has four very distinct seasons,” the couple explains. “We have Burberry for each one.” This month, Herschel and Lilly appeared in their beloved brand’s “Wrapped in Burberry” holiday campaign, a jovial romp through London’s Bloomsbury neighborhood. - Cultured
While Burberry may not currently rank among the top performers in terms of sales, its holiday campaign stood out to me due to its authenticity. I loved seeing The Stollers, doctors from Nebraska, who genuinely love this brand, embody their ethos and wear it. Unlike many hyper-curated fashion advertisements, this campaign shattered a bit of that overly polished illusion and gave us fun, family, and simplicity. While I doubt most brands will follow in Burberry’s footsteps - preferring instead to stick to more conventional, polished approaches - it doesn’t matter. I took this as a win.
These glimpses of real people with impeccable taste—people who wear any brand (for that matter), not to be trendy but because it aligns with who they are—remind me why I fell in love with brands in the first place.