‘Homeless Chic,’ Blue Collar Appropriation and My Frayed Jorts

In the summer of 2024, while lying under a tree in a public park during my lunch break, a woman approached me, to-go container in hand.

“Do you want this?” the 40-something-year-old asked, the styrofoam tray outstretched. “It must be so hard to live out here and be hungry, especially in this heat.”

Taken aback, I politely declined, hardly able to contain my laughter long enough for her to be out of earshot. After the initial shock of being mistaken for being unhoused wore off, I started to wonder why in the first place.  

Working as an art camp counselor, admittedly, it looked like I wrapped a Jackson Pollock canvas around my torso. But even then, I’d hope a relatively well-meaning person would be able to decipher my shirt was stained with paint — not dirt nor grime. Especially because the camp’s logo was predominantly printed on the front. 

It wasn’t until I looked down at my legs that I realized: my jorts. 

This particular pair was given to me as a gift from my friend, after she cropped the legs off a normal pair of shorts, leaving the unhemmed rim exposed, stringy threads and all.

I’m not saying they looked trashy — they’re one of my favorite pairs of jorts — but I could see how someone could mistake them for being past their prime.

After this “encounter,” it made me reflect on my wardrobe as a whole. 

Let’s see: I own a lot of baggy clothes, the vast majority of which are thrifted. A couple of my second-hand clothes have small holes, some scuffed up hems and most commonly, torn up foot holes on my pants. 

Alright, I know I won’t necessarily pass as preppy, but by no means do my clothes signal I live on the streets, right? 

So I whipped out my phone and Googled “What do my baggy, distressed-looking jorts say about me?” In an incognito tab, I asked, “Is it a good or bad thing that a random lady in a park offered me her leftovers?” 

Among the search results, the phrase “homeless chic” kept popping up again and again. First used to describe Dior’s 2000 spring/summer show, the term “homeless chic” is used to describe fashion embracing — or rather exploiting — the messy, mis-matched and at times dirty appearance stereotyped to be the appearance of people experiencing homelessness. The Dior show, for example, was inspired by designer John Galliano’s sights of the Parisian unhoused population.

Other luxury labels have followed suit, such as Vivienne Westwood’s 2010 show, which had models pushing shopping carts down the runway. 

According to their so-called “Golden Manifesto,” clothing brand Golden Goose has “a firm will to preserve traditional craft, making it of the moment, channeling the warmth of the artisanal hand through perfect imperfections,” which is the perfect explanation as to why all their shoes look like they were left to be run over on Lake Shore Drive. (By the way, their cheapest pair of adult shoes is $580).

I believe there’s a fine line between stylistically worn clothes and the absolutely tattered — and frankly disgusting — slop so-called “designer” brands produce. I mean seriously, just give me a pair of jeans and a Big Gulp and I could make a customized Jordanluca piece for less than $2. 

Despite their astronomically high price tags, whatever grimy glamor fashion designers find in homeless chic dissipates the second the models step off the runway and onto the streets.

In a study conducted at the UCLA Fielding School of Public Health, over 50% of the surveyed unhoused population in Los Angeles experienced discrimination at least once a week, a stark contrast to 13-60% for general populations of other minority groups. These crimes are a part of a greater negative perception of the unhoused as unhygienic, mentally ill or drug addicted, one that is perpetuated by sheer ignorance for their population.

Generally, being a part of multiple groups can boost one’s well-being and ability to connect with others, a study found it has the opposite effect for people experiencing homelessness. Because of perceived bias towards the unhoused, it’s actually harder for the unhoused to reach out to others for help. In other words, people will look down on you if you “look” homeless.

It’s gotten so bad that some people living on the street have dressed up in suits, in an effort to not be immediately dismissed. A minority changing their appearance to appease a greater society at large has been repeated time and time again in American history, most notably within the African American community.

As early as the 1850s, pale powder and skin bleaches were widely advertised towards Black women, with the promise of a gentler and more woman-like appearance. In the 20th century, skin lighteners would be marketed towards African Americans trying to distance themselves from their darker-skinned peers, reinforcing the unfortunate stereotype that lighter tones are more competent and personable.

On the other side of the coin, not all people experiencing homelessness wear dilapidated dress. In 2019, 63% of unhoused individuals were sheltered on any given night in the U.S., meaning they were living in homeless shelters, transitional housing or hotels/motels — they have adequate access to showers and/or washing machines. 

Harmful stereotypes emerge when we try to apply the unclean, ragged-clothed caricature to an entire group of people, the majority of which aren’t applicable. 

Thank God, the homeless chic trend only preys upon those rich enough to afford them.

So then why do almost every item in stores like Urban Outfitters or Abercrombie & Fitch look like they were dragged across the floors of an L station? 

Seemingly, the infected boils of couture fashion’s homeless chic look have popped, its pus dribbling down to fast-fashion retailers. 

Fast fashion conglomerates have adopted a “pre-worn” look, churning out basic garment after basic garment, adorned with cookie-cutter fraying or a lazy paint splatter, and labeling them “distressed.” In fact, Urban has gone so far with the “lived in” look when they briefly sold a Kent State sweatshirt blotched with blood, likely referencing the 1970 event where the Ohio National Guard killed four unarmed student protestors.  

Bringing up questions of authenticity, clothing brands that were originally marketed towards the blue-collar worker, like Carhartt, Timberland or Dickies, have now gained prominence as streetwear fashion. Unlike those of fast fashion, work clothes’ high price tag isn’t because of brand recognition, but because of the sheer quality of the product.

Fraying cuffs and splitting seams were a non-verbal means of expressing hard, physical labor — now the conceited record store employee wears a weathered Carhartt jacket while mansplaining Geese. 

Yes, I know this inauthenticity is inherently less offensive than homeless chic as an idea, but whenever I see a pair of $90 jeans that was used as toilet paper or a shirt that appears it barely survived a wood chipper, I can’t help but roll my eyes. 

I’m not even going to act like I don’t wear clothes with imperfections — I do. But when that’s the case, it’s because: a. I’ve worn and kept clothes for so long, they’re bound to get roughed up, or b. I’ve thrifted clothes with pre-existing — and minimal — wear and tear.

While I try to avoid buying first-hand clothes as much as possible, if I’m going to buy unworn, mass-produced items, I’d prefer they actually looked unworn and could survive more than one spin cycle.

Despite what others try to tell me — mainly my mom — I’m comfortable in the way I dress. I’m not trying to start a “homeless chic revolution” at Loyola and I’m sure the average person may not think about clothing so deeply. 

So when the weather gets nicer, I’m going to keep wearing my favorite frayed jorts and a thrifted T-shirt, knowing I’m dressing for me. I just hope someone doesn’t offer me their half-eaten Chicago dog in the process.