I first began to notice this phenomenon some time ago: that the internet seems almost allergic to a genuine fashion moment when it comes to social media stars. Influencers have always existed in their own fashion bubble on Instagram and TikTok – one dominated by micro-trends and deeply rooted in fast fashion. As Miranda Priestly might pontificate: it's the digestible trickle down from what's happening on runways – fashion that's effortless, cutesy and, lets face it, typically flattering for a male gaze.
And I get it. For influencers, it pays to stay within the confines of their audience's narrow tastes. Literally. Through affiliate sales and audience growth, it's better for their self-promotion to wear things that are already popular as they're more likely to be served up on Explore feeds and For You Pages.
Cresting trend waves is how they stay relevant – for a while, at least (relevance never lasts forever on the internet). But for most influencers, there comes a point when access and creativity push them in the direction of real fashion. The kind that exists in a vast and borderless sense. It's a little weirder, a little less digestible.
"For most influencers, there comes a point when access and creativity push them in the direction of real fashion. The kind that exists in a vast and borderless sense."
But their audiences can't always keep up. These are people so chronically online that they're ensnared in the endless churn of trend cycles. For them, anything straying outside the narrow parameters of what TikTok decrees as “fashion” is immediately deemed a crime against style.
The realisation crystallised for me when Addison Rae shed the mantle of TikTok ingénue and emerged as a bona fide pop muse. First introduced as a skinny-jeans-wearing Southern college student who shot to viral fame on the app, Rae has traded her signature dorm-room relatability for a stylised plunge into music. The transformation, of course, did not come without backlash. Her Y2K-inspired aesthetic – pink furry hats, slogan tees, athletic socks paired with ballet flats – was met with waves of mockery online, eager to dismiss her reinvention.
At last year’s MTV Video Music Awards, Rae doubled down on her bold approach to style, arriving in a custom lingerie-inspired creation by designer Miss Claire Sullivan. The look – complete with swan-like bra padding, feather flourishes, and a frothy tulle tutu – provoked a chorus of divided reactions. “So embarrassing. Could have been interesting, but that bra! It looks horrible. She needs to fire her stylist,” one commenter wrote under Vogue’s coverage. Another quipped, “Designer seems to have failed Bra Construction 101… sheesh.”
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What makes Rae’s evolution so striking is how it underscores the internet’s inability to reconcile growth with authenticity. To many, her pivot into music and bolder styling reads as 'calculated' rather than natural, as though an influencer is only allowed to inhabit the persona through which they were first discovered.
The result is a paradox: while mainstream celebrities are applauded for reinventions that mark different stages of their careers (Bowie, Styles, Madonna) influencers who attempt the same are accused of losing touch with taste.
"While mainstream celebrities are applauded for reinventions that mark different stages of their careers (Bowie, Styles, Madonna) influencers who attempt the same are accused of losing touch with taste."
In the same vein, few embody the modern influencer archetype more fully than Alix Earle. Another blonde bombshell who skyrocketed to fame on TikTok filming ‘Get Ready With Me’ videos from her college bedroom in Miami, her look has always been digestibly “hot” and “on trend.”
As her star has ascended over the past four years, so too has her wardrobe. The bodycon dresses, stiletto heels, and miniskirts paired with her NFL-playing boyfriend’s jerseys have given way (occasionally) to off-the-runway ensembles, carefully curated with the guidance of a stylist. She’s attended shows in New York and Paris, experimenting, evolving, and daring to push her boundaries. And the internet… absolutely despised it.
Take, for example, her appearance at Paris Fashion Week earlier this year for the Miu Miu FW25 show. Earle arrived in a bold, cobalt leather skirt that extended past the knees, paired with a matching cinched jacket, grey toeless socks, and strappy, patent cream kitten heels.
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In the context of fashion, the outfit hardly qualified as shocking. In fact, similar looks appeared on the runway that very day. And this was not just any runway: Miu Miu was crowned by the 2025 Lyst Index as the hottest brand of the year, based on global consumer behaviour and social media trends. So, if the outfit itself is universally celebrated as desirable, and these exact clothes were on the runway, why was Earle so relentlessly mocked online for wearing it?
By the time she posted her look to Instagram, she cheekily captioned it: “the girls that get it, get it.” The comments, however, came swiftly. “It’s so unflattering” one user declared. Another quipped, “Only you and your stylist get it but we still love you,” garnering nearly 4,000 likes.
Fashion is, of course, subjective. It always has been – there’s no arguing that. Not every look will resonate universally. But what stood out to me in this particular instance was the comparison many drew to Sydney Sweeney, who attended the same Miu Miu show in an almost identical black ensemble – albeit with a shorter hemline and more conventionally trendy tailoring. “This is exactly what [Earle] thought she was doing,” one Reddit commenter remarked, holding up Sweeney's as the “correct” version of Earle’s outfit.
The irony is palpable: the internet bemoans fashion’s monotony and its narrow adherence to trends, yet when confronted with something that dares deviate, the response is a gleeful pile-on. Earle defended both herself and her stylist, but the criticism persisted for weeks, trailing her into every new GRWM video where she dared to don something else outside the box.
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A quick Google search of Earle’s stylist revealed that he has also dressed another figure famously resistant to the male gaze, trend conformity, and safe choices in fashion: Emma Chamberlain.
To know me is to know that I am an Emma Chamberlain fan 'til I die. And her fashion journey has been nothing short of fascinating. She’s come a long way from hawking russet-toned boucle bombers nicknamed “Poopy Jackets” and velvet “Grandma Scrunchies” to her YouTube following.
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Nearly a decade later, Chamberlain is now a fixture on the Met Gala carpet and in the FROW at international fashion weeks, viscerally shaping online fashion discourse with her every choice. If Emma donned flared yoga pants, hundreds of thousands of her 14M+ followers would immediately follow suit.
Yet as with Earle, Chamberlain’s evolution toward the avant-garde has not been universally embraced. Gone are the Brandy Melville tees and casual sneakers of her early influencer days; in their place, a wardrobe of neutrals from Comme des Garçons, Margiela, and vintage rarities. “I love u but i hate this i mean what is going on,” one commenter lamented under a video of her pairing black capris with a tunic layered over a white button-down.
Her decision to buzz and bleach her hair into a pixie cut earlier this year became a lightning rod for criticism too. Ever since her infamous ‘Haircut’ YouTube video, her comments have been a battlefield – half condemning, half defending. “I can’t vibe with the short hair it gives me little boy vibes”. “Why does everyone have to voice their negative opinions on her hair. i can’t be the only one who likes it?” The discourse rages on even now.
The same pattern reappeared to me more recently though, when another influencer, TaraYummy (9.8M TikTok followers), faced backlash online for her MTV VMAs red carpet look just over a week ago.
In a video posted the following day, she exclaimed: “I don’t know why people hated my dress so much!” The outfit in question? A strapless black satin gown, punctuated by a streak of pink fabric emerging from beneath like an exposed petticoat.
“I knew it wasn’t going to be everyone’s favourite,” she continued. “I wanted it to give campy, Y2K. It’s the MTV Music Awards! It was popular in the 2000s! Not everything in the 2000s was low-rise and sexy. It was vintage Betsy Johnson and I loved it.”
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To my eye, the look was clever, thematic, and faithful to her own alternative, Y2K aesthetic. It was a thoughtful archival reference that stood apart from the endless parade of sheer gowns and bodycon silhouettes dominating carpets today. And yet, predictably, the internet pounced.
What unites these cases is not a matter of poor taste, but rather a culture that resists discomfort. Influencers who dare to deviate ‘too much’ expose the fragility of our collective relationship with style.
"Influencers who dare to deviate ‘too much’ expose the fragility of our collective relationship with style."
We claim to crave originality, but the moment it appears, we recoil. But true fashion moments are rarely comfortable – they’re disruptive, challenging, and designed to provoke a reaction.
The tragedy of social media is that it flattens this complexity into an endless binary: flattering versus unflattering, trendy versus cringe. And when virality is the only thing that dictates taste, the subversive can only survive in the margins.
