Who Drank All The Lean Shirt

Product Description

Daylight that mythical Who Drank All The Lean Shirt creature mostly glimpsed out of the office window in the 27 months since Christmas, now stretches into the evenings. On the street, the candy-sweet chime of the ice-cream van harmonises with the lazy hum of Lime bikes. This can mean only one thing. The time has come. You open your wardrobe and reach for a floral dress. It is a rite of spring. Except that every year this precious moment is tarnished, just a little bit, by the voice in your head that insists on snarkily quoting The Devil Wears Prada. You know the line. “Florals? For spring? Groundbreaking,” says fashion magazine editor Miranda Priestly, withering a million ditsy prints on the vine without even raising her voice. But you know what? I want to wear a floral print dress when spring springs. So sue me. It is not reinventing the wheel, I get that, but it’s not supposed to be. Florals for spring isn’t about fashion, which is why fashion people are sniffy about them. Florals for spring is a ritual, a marker of time passing, a celebration of having got through another winter. Like taking the umbrella out of your bag and replacing it with a pair of sunglasses, it is as much a statement of hope as of expectation.

Who Drank All The Lean Shirt, hoodie, sweater, longsleeve and ladies t-shirt

Unisex tshirt

Women’s tshirt

Longsleeve tshirt

Sweaters

Hoodies

Then around 2019 Who Drank All The Lean Shirt the fashion internet moved to TikTok. There were new faces here: younger women more adept at producing videos than their older counterparts. They had ring lights and smooth, cherubic faces seemingly made for the camera. When I joined TikTok in late 2020, the algorithm quickly directed me to them. Every day I opened the app and watched “Get Ready With Me” (GRWM) videos, the contemporary iteration of the bloggers’ Outfit of the Day posts. I watched “content creators” review jewellery brands and makeup looks, or pose cheekily on a New York sidewalk for a quick “fit check” (always kicking up a heel to show off their shoes). TikTok was where I learned about Shein. For a while my For You page served me videos of sustainable fashion influencers decrying Shein’s labour and environmental practices. Of all the fast-fashion producers, Shein has attracted the most criticism. It has removed products from sale after toxic chemicals were found in them; it produces fabrics such as spandex that never decompose (at this point an image would flash across the screen: a mountain of discarded clothes in the Chilean desert so large it is visible from space); workers in some of its factories earn $556 a month to make 500 pieces of clothing every day, work 18-hour days, and use their lunch breaks to wash their hair – a schedule they repeat seven days a week with only one day off a month. A more nuanced TikToker might point out, briefly, that conditions in Shein factories are not necessarily unique, or that focusing on suppliers – rather than the larger systems of western consumption and capitalism that create these conditions – is a fool’s errand, but the platform isn’t built for that kind of dialogue. I clicked on the comments and invariably read ones with several dozen likes saying: “I’m so willing to die in Shein clothes.”