A War on Plastics

Towards the end of what was a pretty eventful week, I agreed to drag my fabulous self out for coffee with a relative who was in town for a couple of weeks. As per our non-verbal agreement, it’s coffee and clothes—always. Your girl is the stylist of pretty much everyone I cross paths with these days. Whether it’s for a magazine cover, an ad campaign for a close friend’s new brand, or simply someone dear to me—I never lie about style. My reputation precedes me, and the sometimes blunt honesty a few might take issue with is best served with a glass of cold water.

We sipped coffee at a Parisian café, munching on multicolored macarons, chatting about the latest hit from K-pop royalty Blackpink. Their new sound, Like Jennie, is everywhere—TikTok videos, reels, you name it. The irony? My relative’s name is Jennie too. She was telling me about her struggles in the film industry, and it hit me: the cost of fame is something we rarely stop to consider. The path to stardom is paved with chance encounters, agency contracts, and the hope of landing something more meaningful than shampoo ads or government recycling campaigns. And if you’re lucky enough to make it, you might just find yourself being bossed around on set by a 24-year-old production manager with bad extensions and questionable tattoos.

After our coffee date, we headed to our favorite shopping destination. We browsed through several big-brand stores—impeccable visual merchandising, upper-middle-class price tags—and I was dismayed to discover that all the best pieces were made from the notorious poly-cotton blend. Horror of horrors: some were 100% polyester.

I began to wonder—are we insane, wrapping ourselves in plastic? As if the world didn’t already have enough problems. Mountains of used bottles, food containers, packaging… and now we’re wearing it too? What is the deal with fast fashion? Exceptional designs—whether copied or crafted by a genius designer—keep hiding the secrets of this notorious, infertility-causing, chemical-leeching endocrine disruptor. Beauty is pain. We learned that from our mothers, who learned it from theirs. But beyond the temporary discomfort of getting silky, hair-free legs, perfectly arched brows, or a corset-trained waistline… how high a price are we willing to pay for beauty and style? Haven’t we reached the limit of suffering that’s ethically appropriate and politically correct?

I couldn’t help but wonder: with all the thought that goes into the safe and environmentally conscious management of polymers and tracking of microplastics, do we not have it bad enough already?