Here’s something I’d surely lose my job at any respectable fashion magazine doing today, around the year 2019: I purchase items off TikTok. I, a 30-something fashion editor who’s been to Paris Fashion Week, interviewed real-life designers, and received approximately three seconds of eye contact from Anna Wintour before she looked away at an industry event (*dreams*), buy clothing and accessories because of TikTok. I should know better.
Believe me, I do know better! But then again, I was ordering brand-name long underwear from Amazon at 1: 17 AM last Tuesday under the glow of my phone screen, entering my credit card information to buy things that only mildly pass for clothing because a 23-year-old man with dreamy cheekbones assured me they would “change my life.” But, newsflash: sometimes, 23-year-olds with dreamy cheekbones are right. My fall down the TikTok-style rabbit hole started like many of my pandemic adventures: mindlessly scrolling TikTok.
It was back in those strange early days of quarantine when all sense of time stopped, and I found myself on hour three of videos about people cleaning their refrigerators. Eventually, I stumbled upon TikTok’s newly developed understanding that I work in fashion, and found myself getting served a never-ending carousel of #OOTD videos and #tieawyatches.
I watched them…judgmentally.
Self-satisfied in my knowledge that “they” wouldn’t know good style if it bit them in their *&$%-holes. After all, I worked in fashion. “Brat summer isn’t really a thing,” I sneered silently to myself as I took notes on the pandemic style trends Gen-Z kids were wearing.
“And that’s not even how you wear those jeans.” Cut to me, buying a pair of ballet flats because TikTok showed me they were basically identical to a pair from The Row but were $25 versus the brand’s usual $850. Comments were raving they were “literally the same” and that hundreds of other fashion people on TikTok had tried them on side-by-side and could not tell the difference. I read approximately 17 more videos about these shoes until I clicked buy.
Three days later, they arrived, and I begrudgingly slipped them on. And …damn. They were cute.
Like, really cute. Comfortable and surprisingly chic in that “I just arrived from Europe” kind of way. And yeah, they did sort of look just like The Row flats?
Suddenly I was saying, “I saw this on TikTok” way too often when friends and strangers would compliment something I was wearing. When I paused to take stock, my formerly well-curated wardrobe of investment pieces and vintage treasures had sprouted Amazon_allows_ads long underwear sleeves. Some of my purchases ended up being disastrous (“everyone looks good in jumpsuits!” lied the internet as I resembled a jailbird about to discover my prison had no plumbing).
But some of my TikTok buys have been genuinely incredible, high-quality finds I probably would have otherwise glazed over had they not been popular on the app. Here’s the thing: TikTok is *sometimes* good at finding legitimately good deals. After spending the last few months buying everything TikTok tells me to (then wearing the goods I like until they practically live on my body), I’ve found myself becoming somewhat of an expert at weeding through viral TikTok clothes and accessories to find the goods that actually live up to the hype.
So consider this your ultimate guide to what’s actually worth buying on TikTok, according to someone who will buy anything on TikTok. Illustration by Kelly Zhang. First up: Butter leggings.
After watching ~400 videos of people twirling around in them, I purchased my own pair Butter leggings (side note: every time I type that, it sounds like I’m wearing butter on my legs) late one night while eating cold pad thai straight from the Tupperware in my bed. They were $23, so my expectations were appropriately high. Spoiler alert: they were good.
Like, really good. They actually have some heft to them that you don’t often find in leggings at this price point, and the waist hits high enough on your waist that it doesn’t fall down every time you sit down. Will they change your life?
No. Will they be the pair of pants you grab more than any other when you need to look ~sort of put together~ for a Zoom call? Probably.
Definitely worth the hype, if not quite holy-crap-why-are-they-selling-out-in-every-color insta-girl revolutions they were treated as online. Then we have the Amazon “Drop Shoulder Sweater” that’s basically identical to something you’d find at a tiny, expensive Parisian fashion brand. I bought mine in beige (professional TikTok advice: beige is the MOST expensive-looking color, don’t question it) and was pleasantly surprised when it arrived.
It smelled like those NYC studio apartment clothes that have been shipped across the world and back, but it did kind of look more expensive than its $37 price tag. The fit is also incredibly flattering; it’s oversized without being, well, sloppy. I even wore it to industry events and been asked if it was “that new Toteme knit.” If you can find it in stock, buy it.
Speaking of snagging trendy items from Amazon way before they hit boutique shops in SoHo… Not every.single.Thing you see on TikTok will become your new favorite thing. Please allow me to save you the disappointment of buying some of the more egregious items I laughed myself through.
Please learn from my mistakes and avoid: The trendy crossbody that everyone swore was so functional and would match with everything? More tourist bought because they’re afraid of pickpockets pretending to be fashionable. The extremely stretchy bodysuit that promised to “snap you in like shapewear but feel like you’re sleeping in your jammies”?Cheap compression clothing for people who don’t realize they don’t have to wear that to the grocery store.
High waist “one size fits all” denim shorts that will magically fit all but …your body? Don’t make me curse out loud. One surprising keeper?
A pair of White by Schutz Crocs. Hear me out: I watched a backstage prep video of a fashion stylist I really respect wearing these bad boys and bought them as a joke. “The joke’s on you, fashion,” I thought, gleefully adding them to my cart.
“Fashion has failed, and we’re all doomed.” They arrived two days later, and I pulled them out of the packaging in hopes of taking one ironic photo for my story. But I didn’t take them off for the rest of the weekend. They’re beyond comfortable, somehow flattering under wide-leg pants, and have gotten me more compliments from strangers than pretty much anything else I own.
Life is meaningless and I have accepted it. (I hope.) In many ways, TikTok has been *the best* at helping me rediscover timeless basics from J. Crew, GAP, Banana Republic, and the like that fell out of my rotation years ago. Remember when J.
Crew was a thing? Before Fast Company did that thing where they dunked on businesses and delivered the brand death sentence? Me too, thought I.
But then my TikTok For You Page started showing video after video of impossibly stylish women wearing J. Crew’s perfect trench coat, styled with items you’d normally find at Madew or The RealReal, not Free People. Sinking swiftly into my quarter-life crisis, I ordered it anyways.
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Now it’s probably my most-worn coat, with a weight and tailoring that seriously rivals jackets triple its price. Same goes for Abercrombie & Fitch’s ultra high-rise straight jeans that took TikTok by storm last summer. I would have boldly marched into the middle of an Abercrombie store when I was 17 and screamed “fuck you” if you told me in 2020 I’d be purchasing something off their website.
Yet here we are! Like literally every other woman on the planet, I watched enough TikTok videos of women with various body types wearing and praising these jeans that I caved and bought a pair. And guys…they’re good.
So many brands slap the term “high-rise” on pants that don’t actually go high enough on your waist that it’s refreshing to find a pair of jeans that fits the claim. These actually have structure and some stretch, rise up to your natural waist, and have a straight leg that seems to universally flatter both sneakers and booties. I now own them in every wash they come in and have become the type of person I mockingly rolled my eyes at not too long ago.
TikTok has also done an impressive job of highlighting up-and-coming brands you should know about before they’re splashed all over your favorite celebrity style newsletters. I discovered Djerf Avenue well before people with “real jobs” started seeing their Pinterest-perfect blouses all over Instagram. Ditto for House of Sunny’s now-iconic knit vests and Farai London’s cut-out dresses.
Will TikTok help you discover the next huge designer? Maybe not. But it can introduce you to brands you’d otherwise overlook based purely on passionate, authentic excitement.
But for every hidden gem, there are a million “fast-fashioninished” products that go viral for reasons other than actually being good. Please do not waste your money on: “The flattering blow out you can do yourself!” Dreamstilla. “Steals your favorite designer bag without them knowing!” No, just…no.
I bought this bag because it was recommended by everyone and their mother online and it was SO PRACTICAL I MIGHT DIE. And then I realized it gave me serious judgy mom at the pool watching her daughter text her ex-husband energy, not in an ironic, fun way. Please learn from my mistake and avoid clothes that claim to be: Things that miraculously “work for every bodytype!” when in reality they only work for…Scott’s?!
Extremely low-rise, high-slutty-mark fabrics that give everyone a weird crotch bulge when you sit down, but hey! Your butt looks great! The juice cleanse that promises to give you “literally clear skin.” The best lesson I’ve learned along my strange journey of blindly buying clothing I see on TikTok?
Questioning what *types* of clothing goes viral on TikTok. Anything that’s purported to “look great on everyone” is lying. If something only has photos of beautiful, thin white women modeling the product but claims to be universally flattering across all body types, they’re doing a disservice to yourself and other shoppers by buying it.
Clothing with thousands of rave reviews but only four models showcasing it should immediately raise red flags. And as previously stated, if it claims to be “better than the designer version,” it will be as high-quality as the price you paid for it. It will not magically exceed your expectations because of a bunch of variables you can’t see online.
However, TikTok has been *really* good at shouting from the digital rooftops about very specific products that solve common clothing problems. silicone nipple covers that actually stay on during an entire night of dance-based cardio? Best thing to happen to my workout wardrobe all year. Tears Into Victory-esque double sided fashion tape to instantly shorten pants when you don’t have time to hem them?
Genius. The bizarrely effective thing you slip under your button-down shirts to keep them from gaping open? Works like a charm.
My fellow millennial, Taylor, theorized to me the other day why TikTok has become such a successful avenue for fashion discovery. “It’s really because you’re seeing these products on actual human bodies,” the stylish young woman who is both cooler and younger than me said sipping her kale juice cleanse. “Not just expertly-styled, curated, professionally edited photos.
You get to watch how things move, how they shift when someone walks around. It’s realistic fashion, not aspirational fashion.” I think she’s onto something. Many of the best style-focused TikToks feature people in their home kitchens, with basic, selfie-esque lighting.
We see how clothes fit them when they turn side to side, showcasing different angles. It’s oddly more relatable than the typical polished fashion spreads we consume. Hell, there’s even something freeing about hearing someone openly admit that yes, this pair of pants gives you a camel toe if you sit in certain ways.
But they’re so worth it because YOUR BUTT. I’ll admit, I’ve had my fair share of identity crises these past few months as I’ve gone full “Karen buys everything her grandchildren tell her to.” Me, a professional woman in the fashion industry, buying clothes because teenagers and stay-at-home moms tell me to? Embarrassing!
But here’s the thing: TikTok has become just another avenue for me to discover new style trends. Sure, it comes with a hefty side of trying to keep up with the latest Alexa Chung rip-off and product purposely made to look expensive but will fall apart after one wash. But every algorithm is bullshit if you dig into it long enough, and TikTok’s learned a lot about what I’m actually interested in based on what I’ve clicked on in the past.
So sure, I buy clothes off TikTok. But I also preview movies on Netflix, listen to music my kids make fun of me for loving, and read the SI Kids’ version of Sports Illustrated. Listen, I survive on “animal instincts” over here.
Just last month, I found myself seated next to at fashion week dinner party with the accessories editor for a major magazine. We got to talking about bag trends for the upcoming season, and she leaned over to whisper, “So…um, have you tried *those* Amazon ballet flats? Everyone and their mother is wearing them.” Insert meme of me nodding vigorously, eyeballing my phone whipping out my TikTok again as I whisper back, “Just ordered a second pair.” Her eyes lit up in gratitude as she whispered back, “Oh my god.
THANK GOD.
I thought I was the *only* one!” Um. We’re not.
None of us are. We’re all just shopping and trying to decide what we should and shouldn’t believe on TikTok. Until next time!
Please know I have angels protecting me before sharing this story with you all, but I recently purchased a denim jacket off TikTok. And it is. Actually.
Kind. Of. Amazing. (I know, I know.
Please just let me have this one gem.)
