Written by Anisha Shinde
I’d like to think we’ve moved past caring about class. No one’s flashing designer logos anymore; that’s gauche. But, in reality, class hasn’t disappeared – it’s just gotten better at hiding. The new hierarchy isn’t about how much money you have, but about how you spend it, what to buy, and how quickly you can spot what’s already over. Where money used to be a number, now it’s a performance of taste, and we’re all competing in a game most of us don’t realise we’re playing.
This shift happened gradually. Fast fashion made clothes accessible to everyone, but that accessibility killed traditional markers of wealth. When anyone can buy something that looks expensive, the actual price of the product stops mattering. What matters, instead, is knowing what’s cool before it becomes mainstream, and, crucially, knowing when to abandon it before it becomes “cheugy.” This creates a new form of scarcity: not material scarcity, but temporal scarcity, where status comes from being early to trends, not late. Unlike money, which is relatively stable, trends could die in weeks.
This is what sociologist Pierre Bourdieu referred to as “cultural capital” – the idea that taste, knowledge, and aesthetic discernment serve as a form of wealth that can be converted into social status. But Bourdieu was writing in the 1980s, before algorithms could create and kill trends at unprecedented speed. What he couldn’t have predicted is how exhausting this system would become, or how effectively it would disguise itself as personal expression.
For instance, consider modern-day examples we’ve normalised: “that girl” morning routines aren’t about wellness, but rather about having the time and money for pilates, fresh flowers, and a pristine living space. Spotify Wrapped isn’t simply a year-end summary; it’s social proof that you have good taste, and that you knew about that artist before they were everywhere. Even our study habits have been aestheticised: not just revising, but “romanticising productivity” with the correct stationery and lighting setup.
The silently cruel genius of this system is that it pretends to be democratic. Anyone can develop taste, right? Anyone can curate an aesthetic. But “effortless chic” costs hundreds – in pilates memberships, in knowing which vintage designer pieces to buy, in the organic grocery hauls that photograph well, in the skincare routines that take 45 minutes – yet, of course, to still look like you didn’t try. Working-class aesthetics that get mocked as tacky are often repackaged as trendy once they’re expensive enough to be inaccessible again. It’s gentrification, but for taste.
What makes this new class system more insidious than the old one is its invisibility. At least, traditional wealth was honest about being about money. You either had it or you didn’t, and everyone had a rough idea of where you stood. But the new system operates through a thousand tiny judgments, and because it masquerades as authenticity and individual expression, you can’t even complain about it without seeming like you don’t “get it” – which, of course, just proves you’re on the wrong side of the divide.
The exhaustion people feel isn’t just from the performance itself – it’s from trying to keep up in a race where the rules won’t stop changing, and the finish line keeps moving. You’re supposed to have a cohesive vibe across every aspect of life: food, fashion, music, your flat, even your Instagram captions. But you also can’t look outdated, which means constantly staying on top of what’s in and what’s already out of style. It’s decision fatigue dressed up as personal choice. Additionally, cultural capital demands constant maintenance to remain effective. Miss a trend cycle, and you’re behind. Jump on one too early, and you’re a try-hard.
There’s no winning, just different ways to lose.
So, here’s what we’ve actually created: a class system that’s more volatile, more anxiety-inducing, and more totalising than the one it replaced. At least you could ignore traditional wealth signalling if you wanted to opt out, but when taste became the primary way we construct identity and community, opting out means social invisibility. We’re essentially stuck in a system where getting in isn’t only about having money, but also about the endless work of curating everything, knowing what actually matters, and being fast enough to jump on trends and drop them before they become passé.
Class has not disappeared. It’s just rebranded as “aesthetic.” And the irony is, we all bought it.
