Your beloved Coastal Grandma? She just inherited a beachfront estate in East Hampton. Suddenly she's trading her thrifted linen blazer for Loro Piana and hiring someone to document her morning beach walks. Welcome to the Hamptons aesthetic—and honestly, it's taking over TikTok faster than you can say "summer share house."
It's 8 PM, you're in a fitting room surrounded by a graveyard of "almost right" options, and your college roommate's garden wedding is tomorrow morning. Every dress feels either too formal or too red-carpet-y, and you're starting to wonder if you should just fake the flu. I see this scenario play out with my clients constantly. After years of styling people for weddings, I've started to think that getting dressed for a wedding isn't just about picking an outfit—it's about solving a complex equation with multiple variables. Or like solving one of those word problems from high school math, except instead of trains leaving stations, you're calculating heel height versus grass density. Once you figure out the formula though? Everything...
So here we are again. August. The stores are confused: wool coats hanging next to sundresses, boots cozying up to sandals like some kind of seasonal identity crisis. And honestly? We're all standing there wondering if buying a cashmere sweater when it's 90 degrees outside makes us prepared or just delusional about our closet space. Look, I've been watching this retail dance for years now, trying to decode pre-fall shopping. You know, that weird time when stores pretend it's October while we're still sweating through our t-shirts. I think I've finally figured it out.
Twenty pairs of heels. That's what I counted last spring when I finally faced my closet. Twenty! Most worn maybe twice, all bought in that dangerous mood where you convince yourself this pair will somehow transform your entire summer. You know what I realized? I'd been collecting shoes like they were Pokemon cards—gotta catch 'em all, zero strategy involved. Total chaos.
Last week, I watched a teenager on TikTok breathlessly explain her "discovery" of low-rise jeans, and I felt my millennial soul leave my body. Listen, I lived through that era — spent way too many hours yanking at waistbands and, yes, perfecting the art of the visible thong. (Still cringing about that one.) So watching this trend come back? It's like seeing your most questionable yearbook photos suddenly become Pinterest-worthy. But here's what's actually fascinating: fashion's circular nature isn't really about nostalgia or Gen Z stumbling onto our abandoned trends. Certain styles literally become time travelers, and they pick up completely different meanings as they bounce through the decades. Wild, right?
