An ode to my leopard print skirt

Josie Lu advocates for more mindful fashion consumption.

Prior to my very first date, I tried on seven different outfits before settling on the original one — my white t-shirt, knotted at the front, and paired with my beloved leopard print skirt. 

That skirt has been with me through a lot: my first date, the first high school party I attended, and to many outings in lieu of jeans that were too tight to be comfortable. Although I don’t wear it everyday, I know it’ll always be there for me, almost like that childhood best friend you know you can always fall back on. 

Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for the rest of my wardrobe. 

In this fast-paced, hyper-consumerist, TikTok trend driven society, it’s so easy to get caught up in the new and shiny. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve spent hours watching clothing hauls and succumbed to the fleeting high of an impulse purchase one too many times. 

As a result, I look at my closet full of clothes and complain that I have nothing to wear. I end up wearing the same three pieces over and over again, the rest of my clothing barely touched. My wardrobe has become an accumulation of all the Instagram-fuelled versions of myself I aspire towards, none of which really feel like me. 

The materialistic world we live in is partly to blame; the rise of fast fashion seems to have permeated every facet of my life, from the Instagram reels I watch each morning to the Facebook ads that follow me around at night. It’s not surprising I sometimes feel like I’m drowning under images of tiny crop tops and Y2K inspired outfits and whatever the next upcoming trend is. 

In her video ‘tiktok is kind of bad for fashion’, Mina Le talks about the rise of micro-trends. While trend cycles once lasted around twenty to thirty years throughout previous centuries, they now last about three months on average. Fast fashion companies such as Shein upload hundreds of new styles to their website everyday, and TikTokers make videos discussing which trends are going out of style before they’ve barely spent any time in the limelight.

Of course, the consequences of such practices go beyond my inability to choose an outfit every morning. Clothing from these fast fashion companies are often made from polyester, the production of which emits about 706 million tons of greenhouse gases each year according to a Vox article by Terry Nguyen. These synthetic textiles take up to 200 years to decompose, and the microfibres they shed are a huge source of pollution in our oceans. 

Fast fashion companies also employ ethically questionable business models in their pursuit of driving new trends and gaining profit. In 2017, independent Aussie label Dyspnea accused Glassons of ripping off their best selling design, a practice not uncommon in the fast fashion industry. Garment producers for Shein and similar companies work in dubious conditions, usually hidden behind opaque supply chains. Furthermore, the cheap prices of fast fashion result in a societal devaluation of labour; we become desensitised to the resources, time and effort that goes into each step of making a garment, from the drawing board to the final product in stores. 

I know all of this, yet I still struggle to resist the temptation of buying new clothes. There are better alternatives, such as thrifting and purchasing from sustainable brands, but these aren’t accessible for everyone. It’s also not the low-income consumers that are holding up the fast fashion industry with their $1000 Shein hauls. 

Rather, the problem lies in overconsumption, and how we view our clothing as disposable. A few weeks ago, I found (and stole) my mum’s dress from the 80’s, and it hit me — how many of my clothes will make it past this decade? If I ever have a child, will they find any of my current pieces when they go rummaging through my wardrobe?

Perhaps they’ll find my leopard print skirt. I don’t see myself ever getting rid of it because of all the memories it holds. It’s also a piece of clothing I feel safe, comfortable and like myself in. To me, it feels purposeful and meaningful, and I want more of my clothes to feel like that. I want to spend more time with my current clothing, be more intentional with future purchases, and view the content my Instagram algorithm recommends with a more critical eye.  

It’s not always feasible to be perfectly sustainable and ethical all the time. But starting now, my leopard print skirt is the new benchmark for my existing and future clothing.