I still have it archived somewhere in Gmail. The email from April of 2016. Subject typed in all caps: “SUPREME DROP DAY – GET READY! !” Something like that.
Probably more exclamation points than necessary. My friend Marcus had essentially programmed himself into a hypebeast-bot at this point, creating spreadsheets to alert both of us simultaneously when select streetwear brands went live with new product. Detailed plans of action for who would refresh Whatpage for which items, whose credit card was saved at Whatstore, backups if we had to rush to the physical locations in person.
We likely approached every single Thursday afternoon release like it was a stakeout. We scored.
Both of us.
Marcus came away with a navy box logo hoodie. I got a camping camo thing that I forget almost immediately after leaving the store. But oh how we felt accomplished afterwards, walking to that overpriced noodle restaurant to Instagram-d stalk everyone else who had bought that day’s releases.
What we had been able to accomplish felt so elite, exclusive even to those outside of our knowledgable circles. We were babies. Don’t get me wrong – I don’t want to entirely trash my younger self here.
Perhaps some. But I also want to honestly reflect on how consumed I was in streetwear hype culture for the better part of a decade of my life. Slept on concrete for shoe releases.
Set my alarms for 2AM to witness drops scheduled for Japan’s timezone. Partook in an unnecessarily complicated swap system that most Wall Street traders would’ve been lost in. At my peak I literally had a spreadsheet detailing resale values for each article of clothing I owned.
UPDATED every week. My spreadsheet once totaled $17,000+. Yeah, you read that correctly.
For clothes. That I didn’t really wear that often because “but what if I need it later?” Looking back it’s funny. Looking back, it made me exhausted.
And that’s really what happened. I grew tired. Again, not overnight, but over time.
The excitement that came from grabbing limited product started to diminish. The whole routine of craving a new hoodie, buying it, taking it’s mandatory picture in the mirror, and promptly moving on to the next thing…I just didn’t enjoy it anymore. Like I was chasing this carrot that would never satiate my appetite.
I wasn’t the only one who felt this way, by the way. Marcus sold nearly his entire Supreme collection not too long after our above story. Poured that money into one Japanese leather jacket he fell in love with from a brand I had never heard of.
To this day he lives in that jacket, and it’s wearing beautifully. Better than if it spent those three years stored away in his closet. Friends of mine have gone from only wearing limited trainers to throwing on the same pair of artisanal boots 7 days a week.
Another one of my friends tells me he gets more joy watching his clothes age and get better with wear than he did having deadstock Jordans. Collecting felt purposeless. At a certain point I just stopped caring.
The point of this story isn’t to act like I’ve transcended streetwear or that I’ve gone full-blown zen master living off of a capsule wardrobe of white tees and drawstring trousers. I still like having nice things just as much as I did 6 years ago. I care about clothes and appearance, sure.
But the why behind what I chose to buy shifted. From grabbing things as soon as possible to browsing sales to save up for that one great jumper. From asking myself “what’s new?” to asking “what do I actually like?” How did I go from a hype monkey reloading hoodieweb.ca every Thursday at 11AM to someone who no longer participates in that circus?
I think a lot of it boils down to intention. You know when you really stop and think about all the work you’ve put into being hype? Sleeping outside stores.
Staying up late to monitor restocks. Trying to outsmart resale bots to buy a pair of trainers. When you add it all up you realise you’re putting A LOT of effort into sustaining yourcollector “creds”.
I had my breakthrough moment once I grabbed a new release and felt…nothing. Pro tip: if you feel absolutely ZERO excitement after you’ve got your hands on a new garment, maybe that’s a sign you don’t actually care about the item itself. As I began nesting deeper into my early 20’s, I also found myself doing something I hadn’t done in years.
Actually wearing clothes I already owned. In doing so I asked myself a question that shook my retail-driven priorities: Why do I own this? Stay with me here.
I’m not preaching that you need to donate all of your clothes and live off of thrift store jumpers. I wore dive dried and ripped jeans with exclusively plain black tees for a good year in college. But the point I’m trying to make is that once I took inventory of my closet I realised that despite owning upwards of 30 graphic tees from brands I deemed “cool”, I consistently reached for plain janked up jeans and faded polo shirts from manufacturers I couldn’t name.
Because they fit damn well and felt comfortable. The most expensive pair of trainers in my closet had probably seen about as many wears as the day I bought them. Yet my comparatively ugly New Balance 990s I casually wore throughout college looked like they’d been kicked all over San Diego.
My collection vs my reality was embarrassingly skewed. The real problem, I found, was that my collection wasn’t an accurate representation of what I liked. It was what I thought I was supposed to like.
Did I like that Supreme tee because of the brand or because of the colour and cut? Truthfully, my closet was filled with too many yesyesyesaynos that I didn’t know how to sort through. Time to do some spring cleaning.
If you’re reading this and thinking “man I wish I still felt this passionate about my clothes!” keep hiking that bullshit mountain. Collecting and admiring clothes is perfectly acceptable, you hype goddamn nerd. The line is drawn when your collection doesn’t actually align with what you enjoy wearing.
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You like shirts. Cool, buy shirts! But make sure you actually LIKE them.
Here’s what I started doing to change my habits. Dig deep on the things that you KNOW you like. For me, that was certain colours (navy, olive, burgundy, grey) and whenever possible natural fibres.
Workwear inspiration mixed with fitted tailoring. Found these guidelines years ago and they’ve yet to not work for me whenever I’m questioning whether or not I should buy something. Find your personal uniform.
Don’t literally wear the exact same thing every day. But once you figure out a formula that works for your body-type and lifestyle you’ll never feel un-dressed. My buddy David Koblowitz used to own close to 60 pairs of shoes.
Now he rocks a consistent formula of fitted trousers, plain tee or oxford, select jackets, and rotate between 3 pairs of shoes. Always looks sharp and puts zero thought into his outfit daily. Invest in fewer, better things.
Buy that one great shirt that you know will last you for years rather than 5 shirts from random drop days. This takes discipline – you have to be okay with waiting to save up for that shirt instead of buying it immediately. It also takes research.
What constitutes quality? Go down that rabbit hole. You’ll come out a much more informed shopper and understand what you’re actually paying for when that nice shirt is double (or triple) the price of your usual go-to shops.
Be versatile. Something hype culture taught me (ironically enough) was how to spot a fucked up trend in knitwear. We all autumn victim to buying orphan items.
Pieces that look great on the hangar or by themselves, but realistically don’t match anything else in your wardrobe. Ask yourself how many outfits that new shirt can actually fit into before buying. A sustainable wardrobe is about curating, not just collecting.
Trust me, I love me some raw denim as much as the next guy. But one of the best lessons I learned during this whole process was appreciating clothes that get better with wear. Jeans that fit your body’s contours from breaking them in.
Shirt collars that soften over time. Shoes that become polished black rather than maintaining that sick white hue they came in. Learning to love wear instead of avoiding it at all costs has helped me appreciate my clothes on a different level.
Think about clothing as something that will last longer than you wearing it. High-quality garments from responsible companies will either hold resale value when you decide to move on from them (this article is ONLY talking about garments that you love. Don’t worry about “investing” in clothes you don’t like!) or they’ll biodegrade at end of life.
That vintage band tee? May sit in a landfill for centuries. Had to include trend regulation in here.
Don’t buy every single thing you like! Trends are fun and there’s nothing wrong with riding one out if it truly resonates with you. The key is giving yourself a little cooldown period between wanting something and buying it.
If you still think about that shirt a month later? Odds are it’s not a trend to you. Needless to say, my closet today looks nothing like it did back in 2016.
Nearly all limited graphics are gone, sold or gifted to my younger cousins who still happily flip through Noah. Hoodies, jackets, trousers. Anything left centres around these three things: timeless design, versatile fabrics, and quality construction.
None of my clothes are boring. They just don’t try to be trendy. And honestly, the less time I have to spend thinking about the whole hype experience, the better.
Trying to stay one step ahead of the next release schedule, watching resales climb and autumn, waking up at odd hours to ensure you secure your size. My hype ADHD used to consume so much of my mental space. Letting go of that culture has been one of the best decisions I’ve made regarding my wardrobe.
Hell, I even save money in the process. I’ll spend more on a single pair of trousers now than I would’ve on a handful of graphic tees during college. But because I know how often I’ll wear that jumper vs that oversized whatever-I-feel-like-printed hoodie, I understand the cost-per-wear my dollars are going towards.
Plus I’m not constantly REbuying clothes to feel like my wardrobe is up-to-date. Had to leave this quote from Marcus in here. We were texting about this piece as he was subconsciously running his fingers along the sleeve of his Japan jacket – still looks insane after 3 years of wearing it regularly. “I remember stressing so much about losing out on releases.
You and I would kick ourselves over something as simple as not getting a size. And for what?!? This jacket just gets better and better every month it ages.
Literally.” -Marcus Loyet Truth is. Streetwear was made to be anti-fashion. Incredibly democratic.
Youth-driven.
About taking pride in where you shop vs where you’re “allowed” to shop. But as we all know, lots of that got twisted along the way.
Company logos got bigger. Priorities shifted from function to who had the “coolest” shirt. Maybe going back to streetwear’s roots mean stepping outside of this newly defined hype culture.
Taking back the power to choose what you want to wear instead of having articles chosen for you. Building a wardrobe that speaks to you and your style, rather than what will impress your friends. I love streetwear.
I always will. I think we all learned a lot about self-expression in those torn jeans and bucket hats. I just don’t *need* streetwear anymore.
