When fashion gets political at the dinner table
No one really talks about it, but fashion brawls do not just happen on X (formerly Twitter)—they happen over arroz con pollo, over Thanksgiving turkey, or even over Sunday pasta. Fashion is never neutral, and sometimes, the first runway we ever walk is in our family dining room.
Maybe it is the uncle who calls ripped jeans “a waste of money.” The aunt who side-eyes your crop tops and asks if you are “cold in that.” The cousin who turns up in head-to-toe designer and gets roasted for being “too much.”
Around the table, clothes stop being just fabric—they become stand-ins for values: modesty vs. self-expression, tradition vs. experimentation, “practical” vs. “pretentious.”
And it is not just generational. Fashion carries politics that splinter families in subtle, almost hilarious ways. A dad who swears by Levi’s and refuses to buy anything made after 1995. A mom who thinks logos are tacky, but hoards them secretly in her closet. A sibling who radicalized the family group chat by explaining why Shein is problematic. Even the younger cousin who brags about thrifting for “sustainability,” while quietly reselling on Depop for triple.
Everyone has an angle.
Reading between the lines
What makes these conversations sting is that they mirror the industry itself. Sustainability vs. fast fashion. Modesty vs. body-positivity. Luxury flex vs. stealth wealth.
When your grandma critiques your low-rise jeans, she is not just critiquing denim—she is critiquing the world you belong to. When your dad says he will “never pay more than $40 for shoes,” he is staking out a position against everything, from sneaker culture to fashion’s pricing madness. A crop top is not just a crop top. It is a referendum.
And in many households, it is explicitly political. For some families, wearing a hijab, a sari, or a traditional attire is not just a style choice. It is a cultural stance.
For others, refusing to dress “formally” at family gatherings becomes its own rebellion. In Latin America, flaunting logos can spark debates about class. In Asia, going hyper-minimalist can be read as a rejection of that same status. Even dinner-table fights about “too much makeup” vs. “not enough effort” are really conversations about gender politics in disguise.
September especially makes the tension sharper. New school year, new jobs, new wardrobes—it is when people show up to family meals in freshly bought fits, quietly announcing who they think they are now. The cousin who comes back from college in thrifted Carhartt jackets suddenly feels like a manifesto. The sibling who swapped Zara for archival Margiela is suddenly “too pretentious.”
Families notice, and they react. Fashion becomes the shorthand for how you have changed—and whether everyone else approves.
More than just clothes
But maybe that is the point. The dinner table is a microcosm of fashion itself: full of gatekeepers, rebels, traditionalists, and opportunists, all trying to hold onto their corner of the conversation. And just like in the industry, no one ever really wins. You leave dessert feeling both misunderstood and smugly validated.
Here is the secret, though: these little clashes are proof that fashion matters. If clothes were “just clothes,” no one would bother arguing. But they do—because a ripped jean, a designer logo, or a miniskirt is never just about aesthetics. It is about belonging, identity, morality, and politics. The family dinner table simply strips the conversation down to its rawest, most unfiltered version.
So the next time someone tells you “that dress is too much” or “those shoes are a waste,” just smile. Because what they are really saying is: I see you, I do not understand you, but I cannot look away.
And that, in the end, is the truest definition of fashion dominion.
