This summer, style stopped flirting.
Across TikTok, Instagram, and certain aggressively air-conditioned coffee shops in Brooklyn and Atlanta alike, young women are dressing with one goal: to actively repel the male gaze. They wear what they like, or more precisely, what no one likes—especially not men.
Call it the summer of man-repellent.
Oversized cargo jorts, bleached eyebrows, chunky plastic hair clips, and mismatched scrunchies—think 1990s homeschooler trying to imitate Saved by the Bell’s Kelly Kapowski or Blossom Russo from Blossom and missing the mark. In the name of appearing q u i r k y or e d g y, women now reach for tight, half-cropped, vulgar graphic tees and baggy pants that could double as couch upholstery. The message? “I don’t dress for compliments”—even as they refresh their feeds for validation in the comments section.
This viral self-conscious aesthetic leans on clashing colors, trashbag tailoring, and accessories that appear lifted from a third-grade craft table. It’s marketed as liberation (as if that phrase hasn’t been recycled since Amelia Bloomer). But in practice, it’s just another performance: the pick-me girl, now dressed as her own opposition.
The goal is to be unflattering, unapproachable, and unmistakably online.
Is Ugly Honest?
What viewers are meant to believe is that this trend not only ignores the male gaze but actively provokes the sigma-chads of their imaginations into hysterics. In reality, it draws little more than a casual smirk from the very individuals it aims to scandalize. Yet the movement congratulates itself all the same.
The postulation seems to be that ugly is honest. But there’s nothing honest about it. The look is calculated, down to the clashing jingling belly dancer belt matched with a blazer and ruffled skirt. This isn’t apathy. It’s strategy- a carefully orchestrated performance of nonchalance, curated to appear uncurated.
Like the pick-me girl before her—who insisted she “wasn’t like other girls” while eyeing male approval—today’s man-repeller wants to be seen not seeking it. Which, of course, only works if someone is watching. The trouble with this trend isn’t its ‘quirkiness’, but how self-conscious it is.
I Love Eclectic, Even Weird—If It’s Authentic
When I was in the sixth grade, I wore a floor-length jacket with a red lapel and sequins—basically a pirate costume without the eye patch. I wore that to middle school, y’all. Today, it would probably be labeled “man repellent” (though “friend repellent” might be more accurate). But here’s the thing: as silly as it was, it was authentic. For better or worse (worse), I genuinely liked it. I wasn’t trying to make a statement or spark a trend (no worries there)—I just took a risk and wore something because it felt like me.
So, I like variety. I respect a styled, thoughtful look—across many aesthetics. What matters is that it’s true to the person wearing it. But that truth gets lost when the outfit becomes a performance, especially when it’s laced with the smugness of “I’m better than you because I dress unattractively on purpose.” Style without authenticity isn’t rebellion. It’s just another uniform.
On social media, users post “get ready with me” videos that begin with plausible outfits, only to derail into bird lady ensembles. “This is my villain era,” one woman says while donning a tiara and a skirt made from old handkerchiefs.
Old Archetype, New Platform
The pick-me girl has always existed, from Isabella Thorpe in Jane Austen’s Northanger Abbey to Avril Lavigne’s necktie rebellion in the early 2000s. But today’s version dresses like she was raised by Tumblr memes and emotionally neglected by her father.
And what is a “pick me girl?” She is a woman who seeks male approval by putting down other women or distancing herself from traditionally feminine traits. She often emphasizes how she’s “not like other girls” in an effort to stand out and appeal to men, typically by performing low-maintenance, submissive, or contrarian behavior. In short, she’s Pearl Davis with uglier clothes.
At the center of this aesthetic is a delusion: that by rejecting beauty norms, you somehow opt out of the system entirely. But social currency has simply shifted. And perhaps worst of all, the clothes often do look good, eventually. The intentional ugliness, once filtered through enough videos and styled by enough influencers, becomes another aesthetic to scroll through on Aesthetics Wiki.
Conclusion
Even Tim Gunn, who built a career helping questionable outfits “make it work,” might take one look at this and politely decline.
