It’s a Friday afternoon, and I’ve patched off next week’s required reading in favour of a vintage clothing sale at the nearby Koju Coffee. My friend and I blend into the throng of well-dressed university students rifling through the racks. Sequins, tiger print, three-quarter length sleeves. I find myself holding up pieces in the mirror: “This is so…” Hot girl, chic, whimsical; buzzwords that any girl my age has heard over and over again, which not only describe the clothes in front of us, but seem to box them in. Each online expression – “meme”, if you will – carries its own set of constraints stitched into the fabric of our everyday speech, and worn on the back of all those who use them. Are these expressions helpful to us, or do they kill the true ideals of individuality, uniqueness and “cool”?
One major culprit in this obsession with ‘coolness categorised’ is the rise of the micro-influencer (a creator with 10,000–100,000 followers). This subset of content creators has skyrocketed to prominence in recent years on apps like Instagram and TikTok, and they have a unique appeal due to their relatability, consistency, and ability to cater to a specific audience. Personally, I know I’ve followed creators for as little as the song used in the background of a video, or an interesting tattoo. They then often become a staple of my For You Page and are a source of inspiration and entertainment. Micro-influencers feel within reach: they are “cool” without the advantage of celebrity status or excessive wealth. Even better, you can find the jacket they’re raving about on Vinted, instead of a link straight to the Gucci website. But with these new models of effortless cool come new, higher expectations of what it means to be unique. Everything is a guide to “hot girl aesthetic” or “how to bring whimsy into your outfits”. There now exists a jarring contradiction between the idea of “cool” as affirmed identity or originality, and “cool” as a commodity, a social currency that is wedged into boxes and tied with a pretty bow (courtesy of the 2024 bow trend – you’re welcome).
In addition to the sways of the internet, university is an undeniably transformative time for students. Free from the judgement of our small towns, parents, and childhood peers, we can finally spread our fashionista wings and truly find our niche. Endless societies, sports, and student events open up brand new channels of exploration and expression of the self. Suddenly, everything is more colourful than anyone could ever have described to 17-year-old me, and it is beautiful. However, there is always a downside. Never in my life had I felt so embarrassingly uncool as walking into a lecture theatre full of people who dressed so thoroughly like themselves. I wanted their hair, their jacket, to read the book they were carrying under their arm. Why had I never had an original idea ever? I was drowning in a sea of people who appeared to already know their aesthetic inside and out. I am left wondering whether everyone else feels the same overwhelming pressure to find a distinct style amidst all the chaos that comes with university life.
In a time when everyone is trying to find their own “niche”, individuality seems to be a goal that is being pushed further out of our reach. We are collectively chasing a prescribed set of ideals, all of which amount to one overarching goal: coolness. But coolness has never been something that exists in an Instagram dump, TikTok digispeak, or a Pinterest board. In this digital age of oversaturated feeds and overconsumption, I have hope for a new era of the individual. When or how this identity renaissance will occur, I couldn’t tell you, but I can offer my advice on the subject. We must go back to the roots of coolness as a subjective, messy, changeable thing. It exists in our proudest fashion moments and our most humiliating fashion faux pas. It grows from the respect we show others and the ways in which we respect ourselves. And most importantly, we need to realise that labels like “cool girl” don’t mean a single thing.
