Coquette Disease

Aesthetics are art styles that include things like clothing, interior decor, music, and makeup that underscore different subcultures. They have grown to include not only visual appeal but also lifestyle choices and ideologies. Whether it’s Y2K, mob wife, or cottagecore, these trends have wielded immense power over consumer desires and behaviors. And by consumers, I mean me. After seeing videos about coquette fashion on my feed, I fell down the rabbit hole of flirty, luxurious, vintage-inspired clothing and modern rococo. More than once, I’ve caught myself surfing Amazon for heart necklaces, romantic fabrics, and lacy tops at 3:00 a.m. Yes, I did order an eight dollar lavender latte because the paper cup had a bow on it and maybe I did put Mary Janes on my Christmas wish list because they fit the coquette aesthetic. But now I’m confronted with a question. How do I know my personality and desires aren’t just products of branding?

Trying to be coquette myself harmed my mental health more than it fulfilled my desire to fit in. The aesthetic brings up white girls with bitten cherry lips and silk dresses on slim, delicate frames. Yet even when I dressed the same way or put on the same makeup, I couldn’t see the same image. My soft stomach and wide waist seemed to bulge out of the tight fabrics that others could so easily slide into. Short skirts exposed legs that, to me, looked like tree trunks in comparison to those of the people online. My wide nose and small eyes seemed crude next to the dainty, doe-eyed girls. I couldn’t help but begin to hate my appearance. According to its history and online representation, to be beautifully coquette is to be delicate, romantic, and feminine. I felt that the way I looked meant that I didn’t deserve any of that. My Asian facial features and average build would never be enough to match the image of the perfect coquette teen, and it was difficult to accept this. This paired with my fear of missing out on the trend led to me feeling increasingly isolated—especially online and on social media. Even in the digital age—where connection has been more accessible than ever—I felt alone in my struggle. I was too embarrassed by my body to post about dressing coquette, but at the same time, I craved the validation that I would get from doing so. Following a trend implies that people are brought together, but in reality, losing yourself to the pressure of conformity can lead to greater feelings of alienation and self-consciousness. 

Aesthetics can also carry images of privilege that come with wealth, Whiteness, and Western ideals. Trends such as coquette and preppy—which are characterized by luxury clothing, delicateness, and refinement—have historically been associated with affluent and predominantly White social circles. Coquette originates from the Late Baroque period—an artistic movement that was influenced by the Renaissance, which mainly impacted the upper class of Italy. Its and coquette’s association with wealth and exclusivity perpetuate the idea that beauty and sophistication depend on economic status. Trending coquette clothing brands such as Brandy Melville promote images of slim, White beauty with their one-size clothing and lack of diverse models. Even seemingly “crunchy” aesthetics such as “granola girl” still promote a wealthy, romanticized version of what it’s really like to live a holistic lifestyle with nature. 

Companies have been capitalizing on aesthetics by marketing products that help you achieve a fantasy lifestyle. Coastal Grandmacore’s back? Well, we have the perfect sandals for you—authentically crafted so you can almost feel the sand between your toes. Now, aesthetics have become intertwined with consumerism, as we struggle to fulfill an idealized image. The following of these trends, especially microtrends—trends that last even less than a season—have been a huge contributor to overconsumption and the growth of the fast fashion industry. As of 2024, 10% of global carbon emissions are due to clothing production. Of the 75 million fast fashion workers in the world, less than two percent make a living wage. H&M—one of the biggest fast fashion companies in the U.S.—splits up its clothing seasons into 52 “micro seasons” for each week. As well as allowing H&M to keep up with ever-changing trends, this pattern generates massive demand for a huge variety of clothing, leading to companies cutting corners on sustainability and employee treatment for profit. Shein—one of the world’s largest fashion retailers—sells clothes for astonishingly low prices ranging from eight dollars for a sundress to nine dollars for heels and three dollars for a top. It sounds too good to be true, and it is. The price of cheap clothing is paid through labor law violations, inhumane working conditions, and forced labor. A company that releases anywhere from 2,000-10,000 new items daily cannot be an ethical one. But despite numerous documentaries and online sources calling out the company’s stolen clothing designs and exploitative practices, it still thrives today. Sustainability is expensive. Many slow fashion brands are usually two and a half times more expensive than fast fashion brands due to smaller batches of clothing being made and therefore a higher manufacturing price for the company. With the possibility of expensive clothing being outdated in a couple of months or even weeks, the allure of spending money on hundreds of cheap clothes for the price of one well-made one is tempting. As demand for fast fashion has increased from $122.98 billion to $142.06 billion this year, we see how this has affected the industry. On social platforms, influencers post clothing and makeup hauls as well as tips for what to buy to look coquette, indie, Y2K, or grunge. Being cottagecore—an aesthetic based on simple living in the country—is no longer about the appreciation of natural beauty and sustainability but instead about floral sundresses, bows, and expensive rustic furniture. With billions of videos about what products to buy and how to get more of them, users are influenced into loading up their carts with the latest trends. Media companies like TikTok, Instagram, and Pinterest have even added shopping options to their apps. 

Our world is already dominated by trends. Although they’ve always been around, the influence of aesthetics on these trends in the digital age has been difficult to ignore. How can we take action against their harmful effects? Advocating for body type and cultural representation in media and fashion, fighting for workers’ rights worldwide, and enforcing regulations on product advertisement in social media would be good first steps. But the key to both reforming the fashion industry and taking back our individuality may be to reduce our reliance on social media as a source of validation. One thing to realize is that the foundations of strong communities are forged from accepting and embracing differences—not conforming to a standard. This thinking decreases demand for trending products as a means of belonging—thus diminishing the power of the fast fashion industry. From there, we could begin to shift the industry towards more responsible practices. Connection and inspiration can still be found through expressing your authentic self without fear of missing out or not fitting in. By just changing our mindsets, we can one day eradicate this disease.