That’s Fashion, Sweetie: The one that got away

Every morning, we make decisions: Do we press snooze? Should we really buy another Starbucks coffee for the extra 20 stars? How appealing does lecture sound today? 

This decision between A or B or C obviously applies to outfits as well, but not in the way that you might think. For me, at least, when picking out tops to pair with skirts or my trusty Baggy Dad jeans, I always consider what kind of bra I wear underneath. Should I wear a sports bra? If I wear this bralette, is the color too bright under my white T-shirt? The bra is supposed to provide some comfort and support, not necessarily be a part of the outfit itself. 

I was never hyper-aware of that final thought until I saw an ad from a vintage lingerie reseller. The bra was beautifully crafted, and the literal silhouette and architectural shaping of the waving lines were breathtaking. Learning it was an older La Perla piece sealed the deal.  I decided that this was one of those unique pieces that would push my creative intellect and capability, so I immediately inquired about measurements to the seller. 

I was head over heels and began daydreaming about how I would style it. I felt it would be beautifully paired with a tube top a la Tae Park, with a bolero inspired by Giambattista Valli RTW S/S 17, over a simple, white button-down or under a blazer. 

Still, I was too scared to hit “checkout,” and another buyer promptly snatched her up. When I talked to my friends about my regret from not purchasing, I realized it wasn’t hesitancy over shipping risks, seller fraud or general cleanliness — I did my research on the seller — but rather from questioning how much I would even wear it the way I envisioned in my head. 

I wanted the bra to be shown off and appreciated by others the same way I did, but I knew it never would for two reasons: I would be a woman wearing a bra, and I was too scared because of that. 

I felt that with lingerie becoming more casual in Gen Z specifically — especially with the normalization of underwear as outerwear as people regularly style and incorporate garters, bustiers, corsets and bra-tops into their silhouettes — I too would feel that reclaiming and feminine empowerment. Still, while I’ve made mood boards and gushed over Prada denim bra-tops, GCDS’s dewdrop bralettes and Isa Boulder’s knit garters, even if I had the funds I still wouldn’t buy them out of the same fear.

I wanted to reflect further, maybe in an effort to avoid studying for midterms, and started at the very base. Was it insecurity — the way they sat on my shorter torso or the way I saw myself? Or rather, was it the discomfort of straying from what I was taught and what I knew? 

The former was and is still completely valid, but I’ve been on a journey of loving myself where I don’t tolerate negative self-talk. But the latter thoughts struck me in my chest a little more. I thought, then, it could be the fear of being perceived in a hypersexual way, or simply a lack of confidence. 

When envisioning myself in my dream outfits with the La Perla bra, even my imagined self didn’t have the confidence to pull them off, feeling instead like a little girl trying on women’s dresses that swallow me whole. But after some Trader Joe’s “Hold the Cones” and a phone call with a friend from home, I realized that this lack of confidence was rather a cultural installment, not my internal conscience. 

Growing up in Japan was a fantastic experience; the culture has greatly shaped my morals, being a polyglot keeps my internal dialogue interesting and I got to grow up in a bustling city that pushed cultural norms while maintaining general respect and a strong sense of community. But, of course, there were still downsides: I was further scrutinized for my mistakes because I was a foreigner, I was more frequently targeted for shady side-hustles to hold foreigners for a ransom of insanely overpriced faux watches and bags in alleyways, and my clothing choices — when not in my uniform — were of utmost importance. 

I was taught very early on to remain modest, especially as a young lady: blend into the crowd, avoid hostile people and if I felt unwelcome somewhere, I probably was and should leave. Still, as I grew older and visited the United States more, I thought that the growing progressive style in Japan meant I too could experiment with my fashion, opting for spaghetti straps and dresses that fell just above my knees. 

Disregarding the fact that my parents saved me from some horrible fashion choices, I wasn’t yet mentally prepared for the stares and uncomfortable energy that I would receive. Those glares, scanning glances and paranoia from the sound of phone shutters targeting me made me immediately purchase more modest clothes and wear them out of the store. 

Regardless, I don’t blame Japan or anyone for instilling in me this way of thinking and approaching clothes; every culture and society has the ugly to accompany its utopic perception, and viewing people, places or things through rose-tinted lenses is unhelpful and (possibly) dangerous. But just because there’s no entity to blame doesn’t mean that reflection and self-improvement can’t occur. 

That’s one of the best things about those late-night Depop browsing and Pinterest scrolling sessions: You never know what pieces will spark which emotions or trains of thought. I’ve just gone through my second fashion puberty and am ready to begin my next phase of exploration — recently being drawn to accent pieces and statement jewelry — but have not yet felt comfortable enough to wear innerwear as outerwear. 

And maybe I never will, but through these moments of reflection, I feel content with this open-ended possibility. Style is neither definable nor containable, rather it’s constantly fluctuating — so, who’s to say tomorrow might not be the day?

Hadyn Phillips is a sophomore writing about fashion in the 21st century, specifically spotlighting new trends and popular controversy. Her column, “That’s Fashion, Sweetie,” runs every Tuesday.