New York Fashion Week is the real September schoolyard
September has always been fashion’s new year, and nowhere does that energy feel louder than in New York. Forget sharpened pencils—designers are rolling out sharpened shoulders. The first days of New York Fashion Week (NYFW) feel like the first days of school: new uniforms, new cliques, new hierarchy. Editors and stylists circle each other like seasoned seniors; new influencers hover on the edges like wide-eyed freshmen, hoping for a cafeteria table. The bell has not even rung yet, and you can already tell who is going to be most likely to go viral.
Street style becomes the hallway—loud, chaotic, and weirdly revealing. You learn more about who is who by watching the sidewalk instead of sitting front row. The old guard shows up in black like they have had tenure for decades. The new kids? They are dressed like they emptied their Depop carts into one look, hoping someone from Vogue will make eye contact.
Fashion week has always been a spectacle, but New York makes it feel personal—like everyone is trying to win something invisible. The thing is, this schoolyard is not about grades, it is about cultural capital. One look that hits, one paparazzi shot that loops on TikTok, and suddenly you are not just invited to the shows—you are the show. September in New York is not just about collections, it is about positioning. Who is sitting with whom, who is whispering backstage, who gets street-snapped outside Proenza Schouler, and who gets ignored entirely.
And by the end of the week, the hierarchy has shifted. The seniors are still there, sure—but half the cool kids will be new.
Meet the cliques
There is the editor clique, of course—the eternal seniors who have had their own table since forever. Always in black: sharp tailoring, Celine sunglasses, and barely-there makeup like they are above trying. Their looks whisper “stealth wealth,” but their energy screams gatekeeper. They glide in late, sit front row without flinching, and barely nod when someone name-drops. They do not have to speak loudly. Their presence does it for them.
Then the influencer freshmen, who show up like it is the first day of school and they have planned the outfit for months—because they have. Think five different trends at once, full glam at 10 a.m., tottering in platforms they can barely walk in. They wait outside venues for the flashbulbs, hoping one candid will make them go viral. They are all nerves and ambition, desperate to be seen. And sometimes, that works.
The art kids—the stylist sets, the ones who know everything before everyone else does. Their outfits look effortless but are actually layered with strategy: vintage Margiela over Prada over something thrifted and reworked last night. They carry giant tote bags full of secrets (and maybe safety pins). They talk in references, pull out obscure runway names mid-conversation, and never seem flustered—even when they are.
Of course, there are the models—they are the athletes. Effortlessly cool, genetically blessed, and permanently bored. They skate between shows in vintage jeans and a tank, no makeup, earbuds in, walking like the sidewalk belongs to them. They do not need to try; they are the moment by default. Everyone stares at them; they pretend not to notice. They will vanish the second their call time hits.
And lastly, the industry ghosts. They are the mysterious transfer students who somehow run everything. They do not walk the carpet, they just… appear. Maybe they are casting directors. Maybe they own a showroom. Maybe they are just chic. They always know which door to slip through and which name to whisper. They never get photographed yet everyone knows their face. No one is sure what they do—but they do it better than anyone else.
When the last show ends and the flashbulbs fade, the cliques scatter like students running for the bus. The editors retreat to hushed afterparties, the influencers rush to upload their content, the stylists collapse in studios, and the models vanish into black cars like it never happened. By next September, the cafeteria seating chart will shift again—new freshmen, new obsessions, new It-girls crowned in the courtyard.
But that is the thrill of it: At New York Fashion Week, no one stays at the top of the social ladder for long. The runway moves fast. Blink, and someone else is wearing your crown.
See you next semester.
