We have more clothing options than ever. Why is shopping so hard?

Down a dim, crooked hallway inside the Jay Street Lofts, a hulking brick relic of Brooklyn’s industrial past, Naomi Mishkin is conducting a radical fashion experiment.

She’s making shirts. In New York City. Using cotton and wool. They are not cheap, and they never go on sale. That counts as a rebellious act in the sprawling $1.9 trillion global fashion industry, a business that over the past three decades has mastered the art of cutting production costs to the bone.

Mishkin owes some of the success of her label, Naomi Nomi, to a growing backlash against companies – from the luxury tier on down to mall brands and fast fashion – that have tried to pull the synthetic poly-blend wool over our eyes. The middle tier of the market has been hollowed out, with prices inching higher even as brands downgrade quality.

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Big mall brands aren’t seeing sales drop off a cliff, but customers have become “more interested in buying less, but buying right,” Neil Saunders, managing director of retail at GlobalData, said.

“There is a bit of a disconnect between what consumers are looking for and what’s being delivered,” he added. Shoppers may feel constrained by higher inflation , but they aren’t trading down to cheaper brands. “Consumers are looking at value more closely and part of that involves assessing how long garments will last and how much wear consumers will get out of them.”

Mishkin, who launched Naomi Nomi in 2018, says her average customer starts with one shirt, then comes back for three more within six months.

“I don’t f**k with my quality… That is the reason I’m still kicking. And I want to be a business that’s around for the next 50 years.”

Inside Mishkin’s sunlit studio, spools of thread, scissors and power tools hang on a peg board above a worktable. There are three racks of shirts and a mirror by the window, with a curtain that can create a makeshift dressing room.

It is not a typical retail experience. There’s no storefront. No sale racks or cash registers or crowds. Try-ons are by appointment. And if you decide to buy a shirt, you won’t get to walk out with it the same day. The shirts are made to order, so no fabric is cut until the money clears. And the money is no joke: Naomi Nomi’s signature white cotton Oxford button-down, sewn in a factory a few miles north in Queens, costs $268 before tax.

That is nearly four times what I paid for the white Gap button-down that I wore when I met Mishkin at her studio in September. Browsing a rack of her latest merino wool Oxfords ($338 a piece), I’m not even holding a coffee but I am nonetheless anxious about spilling coffee on them. They remind me, favorably, of the elegant-but-sturdy garments that once filled my grandmother’s closet.

That is part of Mishkin’s pitch. While she describes her base as “millennials and their mentors” — folks well into their 30s and beyond — there is a younger cohort finding Naomi Nomi because they’d rather have one good $300 shirt than five $60 shirts. They’re increasingly shopping secondhand , she said.

And when they buy new, they’re reaching for brands like hers that exist in a kind of obscure fashion middle ground that some in the industry refer to as “advanced contemporary” — cheaper than luxury but well above mass market prices.

“They’re sick and tired of the planned obsolescence of it… I think that’s the biggest selling point in my clothing. I’m telling you, ‘Yes, it is going to be pricier than an Anthropologie shirt. We’re pricier than Banana Republic, but we’re going to last.”

For me, it started with one crooked seam.

Two years ago, I ordered a seemingly identical replacement of a simple cotton dress that I practically lived in. When the replacement arrived, the new cotton felt stiff, less breathable, and one side seam veered off at an angle, pulling the fabric awkwardly around my body. I chalked it up to a rare miss from an otherwise reliable brand. But subsequent purchases were similarly disappointing. Sweaters quickly pilled after a few wears. Sizing was all over the place. Everything, it seemed, was too delicate for the washing machine.

None of what I was buying could be categorized as fast fashion. But there was no denying something had changed.

It wasn’t all in my head.

A confluence of forces has upended the economics of retail over the past several decades.

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Fast fashion’s ascendence alongside social media in this century is certainly one well-documented culprit. But the decline of American textile manufacturing since the 1970s played a role, too, as brands went overseas for cheap labor. When I asked fashion podcaster Avery Trufelman where the trouble began, she pointed to, among other things, LVMH CEO Bernard Arnault, whose aggressive overhaul of European fashion houses in the 1980s pushed designers to churn out double or even triple the number of seasonal collections they produced.

The result today is that we expect clothes to be cheap, and we expect to buy a lot of them. But that is a relatively new reality.

In 1980, the average American bought 12-14 clothing items a year. By 2018, that figure was 68, Dana Thomas, author of the book “Fashionopolis,” which exposes the labor abuses and environmental tolls of fast fashion, told me.

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And while the price of just about everything Americans buy has gone up since 1980, clothing is a notable exception.

Apparel prices in the United States in 2024 were essentially the same as in 1994, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics .

“We’ve been conditioned to think that clothes should be cheap, but they shouldn’t be cheap,” Thomas said. “Labor costs money… they’re only cheap because nobody along the supply chain is paid what they’re worth.”

For a growing cohort of style influencers, we’ve reached a tipping point.

Rachael Brownfield, a Tampa-based advertising executive who moonlights as a retail sleuth, documents on TikTok her dismay over the fast-fashion-ification of brands such as Madewell and Anthroplogie that she once loved.

Two key themes emerge in Brownfield’s videos:

There are a lot of polyester and other synthetic blends, a sign the brand has cut production costs by using cheaper materials. “If you’re not paying attention, you can spend $200 on something that’s not made well, and made out of plastic,” Brownfield said in an interview.

There is so much clothing. New styles drop every few weeks, creating a perpetual supply of sale rack fodder — much of which will end up in landfills (where their synthetic fibers don’t biodegrade); incinerators (where their synthetic fibers create toxic smoke); or “recycling” centers in developing nations, where, as CNN documented earlier this year, workers face relentless health hazards.

Brownfield captures a frustration that’s palpable across the internet: Clothes have never been more abundant. Yet it’s never been harder to shop for them.

Global clothing production doubled between 2000 and 2014, according to McKinsey research , and the number of garments purchased per person in that time grew 60%.

Today, the fashion industry produces 100 billion garments and accessories every year. That is only a best guess, though, because companies aren’t required to disclose how much they produce, or how much of it ends up in a landfill, Thomas said.

About 60% of new clothes now contain some form of plastic, which can include polyester, acrylic and nylon – all of which are cheaper than cotton or linen, but none of which break down naturally.

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To be sure, a bit of polyester here and there is not inherently bad, especially in outdoor or athletic gear. But it feeds into a consumption loop: Introducing plastic makes an item cheaper to produce, spurring more demand for low-cost items. Shoppers get excited by new trends and brands move quickly to cater to them. Those clothes then cycle through our closets to the thrift store to the landfill as we move on to the next trend.

“This is capitalism 101,” Thomas said. “‘Now that we’ve got everybody hooked on the product, let’s see how we can cut the corners on the product to raise our profits, and maybe no one will notice.”

But at some point, consumers do notice, she said.

“We’re getting to the endgame… There’s only so much you can cut until it really starts showing.”

That’s one of the main reasons a Naomi Nomi shirt costs what it costs: Mishkin’s not using cheaper poly blends or shipping her designs overseas to be sewn in bulk.

“My seamstresses live in the same city as my customers,” she said. “If a customer is going from a $3 coffee to a $5 coffee, my seamstresses are going from a $3 coffee to a $5 coffee.”

在布鲁克林工业时代的一座庞大砖砌建筑——杰伊街阁楼——内一条昏暗、弯曲的走廊里，娜奥米·米什金正在进行一项激进的时尚实验。

她在纽约市做衬衫。用棉和羊毛。价格不菲，而且从不打折。这在规模庞大、价值1.9万亿美元的全球时尚产业中，算得上是一种反叛行为。过去三十年来，这个行业已经将削减生产成本的艺术发挥到了极致。

米什金认为，她的品牌 Naomi Nomi 的成功部分归功于人们对那些试图蒙蔽消费者双眼、使用合成聚酯混纺羊毛的公司的日益增长的抵制——从奢侈品牌到商场品牌和快时尚品牌，无一例外。中端市场已被掏空，价格不断上涨，而品牌却在降低质量。

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GlobalData零售业务总经理尼尔·桑德斯表示，大型购物中心品牌的销售额并没有断崖式下跌，但顾客们“更倾向于少买，但要买好”。

他补充道：“消费者的需求与实际得到的商品之间存在一些脱节。” 消费者可能会因为通货膨胀而感到经济压力，但他们并不会因此而选择更便宜的品牌。“消费者现在更注重性价比，这其中就包括评估服装的耐穿性和使用寿命。”

Mishkin 于 2018 年创立了 Naomi Nomi 品牌，她说她的顾客平均每次购买一件衬衫，然后在六个月内又会回来购买三件。

“我从不降低产品质量……这就是我至今仍然屹立不倒的原因。我希望我的企业能够持续经营50年。”

米什金的工作室阳光充足，工作台上方挂着一卷卷线、剪刀和电动工具。窗边有三排衬衫和一面镜子，还有一块帘子，可以临时隔出一个更衣室。

这并非典型的零售体验。这里没有店面，没有特价货架，没有收银台，也没有熙熙攘攘的人群。试穿需要预约。即使您决定购买一件衬衫，也无法当天取走。因为衬衫都是定制的，只有在收到款项后才会裁剪布料。而且价格也不菲：Naomi Nomi 的标志性白色牛津棉衬衫，产自皇后区北部几英里外的一家工厂，税前售价高达 268 美元。

这几乎是我九月份在米什金工作室见到她时穿的那件白色Gap衬衫价格的四倍。我浏览着她最新款的美利奴羊毛牛津鞋（每双338美元），手里甚至没拿咖啡，却仍然担心会把咖啡洒在鞋上。它们让我想起了我祖母衣橱里那些优雅又耐穿的衣服，而且感觉很不错。

这正是米什金推销策略的一部分。她将自己的目标客户群体描述为“千禧一代及其长辈”——也就是30岁及以上的人群——但也有更年轻的群体在关注Naomi Nomi，因为他们宁愿买一件300美元的好衬衫，也不愿买五件60美元的衬衫。她说，他们越来越倾向于购买二手商品。

而当他们购买新衣服时，他们会选择像她这样的品牌，这些品牌存在于一种晦涩的时尚中间地带，业内一些人称之为“高级当代”——比奢侈品便宜，但远高于大众市场价格。

“他们已经厌倦了这种计划性淘汰……我认为这是我服装最大的卖点。我告诉你，‘没错，它的价格会比Anthropologie的衬衫贵，比Banana Republic贵，但我们的衣服更耐穿。’”

对我来说，一切都始于一条歪斜的缝线。

两年前，我订购了一件看似一模一样的棉质连衣裙，那件裙子我几乎天天都穿。新裙子到货后，感觉面料很硬，透气性也不如以前，而且一侧的缝线歪斜，把布料拉扯得紧绷绷的，很不舒服。我当时觉得这只是这个平时很可靠的品牌偶尔的失误。但之后几次购买都同样令人失望。毛衣穿了几次就起球了。尺码也完全不准。似乎所有衣服都太娇贵，不能机洗。

我买的东西没有一件能被归类为快时尚。但不可否认的是，有些事情确实发生了变化。

这并非完全是我的臆想。

过去几十年里，多种因素的共同作用彻底改变了零售业的经济格局。

Timothy A. Clary/法新社/盖蒂图片社

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本世纪快时尚与社交媒体的兴起无疑是罪魁祸首之一，这一点已得到充分证实。但自20世纪70年代以来美国纺织制造业的衰落也难辞其咎，因为品牌纷纷将生产转移到海外以寻求廉价劳动力。当我问时尚播客主持人艾弗里·特鲁费尔曼（Avery Trufelman）问题的根源时，她指出，LVMH集团首席执行官伯纳德·阿尔诺（Bernard Arnault）是罪魁祸首之一。他在20世纪80年代对欧洲时装屋进行的激进改革，迫使设计师们推出两倍甚至三倍于以往的季节性系列。

如今的结果是，我们期望衣服价格低廉，而且我们期望大量购买衣服。但这只是相对较新的现象。

《时尚之都》一书的作者达娜·托马斯告诉我，1980年，美国人平均每年购买12-14件衣服。到2018年，这个数字达到了68件。这本书揭露了快时尚对劳工的剥削和对环境造成的破坏。

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虽然自 1980 年以来，美国人购买的几乎所有东西的价格都上涨了，但服装是一个明显的例外。

根据美国劳工统计局的数据，2024 年美国服装价格与 1994 年基本相同。

“我们一直被灌输一种观念，认为衣服应该便宜，但它们不应该便宜，”托马斯说。“劳动力成本很高……它们之所以便宜，只是因为供应链上的每个人都没有得到应有的报酬。”

对于日益壮大的时尚达人来说，我们已经到了一个转折点。

Rachael Brownfield 是一位居住在坦帕的广告主管，她同时也是一名零售业侦探。她在 TikTok 上记录了自己对 Madewell 和 Anthropologie 等她曾经喜爱的品牌快时尚化的失望之情。

布朗菲尔德的视频中涌现出两个关键主题：

很多产品都采用涤纶和其他合成纤维混纺面料，这表明该品牌为了降低生产成本而使用了更便宜的材料。“如果你不仔细挑选，可能会花200美元买到一件质量低劣、塑料材质的产品，”布朗菲尔德在一次采访中说道。

服装种类繁多。每隔几周就会推出新款，不断涌现出打折商品——其中大部分最终会被送往垃圾填埋场（因为合成纤维无法生物降解）；焚烧炉（因为合成纤维会产生有毒烟雾）；或者发展中国家的“回收”中心，正如CNN今年早些时候报道的那样，那里的工人面临着持续不断的健康危害。

布朗菲尔德捕捉到了一种在互联网上普遍存在的挫败感：衣服从未如此丰富，但买衣服却从未如此困难。

根据麦肯锡的研究，2000 年至 2014 年间，全球服装产量翻了一番，同期人均服装购买量增长了 60%。

托马斯表示，如今时尚产业每年生产1000亿件服装和配饰。但这只是一个大概的估计，因为企业无需披露其产量，也无需披露最终有多少被填埋。

现在大约 60% 的新衣服都含有某种形式的塑料，其中包括聚酯纤维、腈纶和尼龙——这些都比棉或亚麻便宜，但它们都不能自然分解。

Patrick T. Fallon/法新社/盖蒂图片社

诚然，少量聚酯纤维本身并无不妥，尤其是在户外或运动装备中。但这却助长了消费循环：塑料的引入降低了产品的生产成本，从而刺激了对低价商品的需求。消费者对新潮流趋之若鹜，品牌也迅速跟进。随着我们追逐下一个潮流，这些衣服最终从我们的衣橱流转到二手商店，再到垃圾填埋场。

“这就是资本主义入门课，”托马斯说。“既然大家都对我们的产品上瘾了，我们就看看怎么才能在产品上偷工减料来提高利润，也许没人会注意到。”

但她表示，消费者总有一天会注意到这一点。

“我们快到最后阶段了……削减的幅度是有限的，再大就会显现出效果。”

这也是 Naomi Nomi 衬衫价格高昂的主要原因之一：Mishkin 没有使用更便宜的聚酯混纺面料，也没有将她的设计运到海外进行批量缝制。

“我的裁缝和我的顾客住在同一个城市，”她说。“如果顾客从3美元的咖啡升级到5美元的咖啡，我的裁缝们也一样，从3美元的咖啡升级到5美元的咖啡。”