By the time your thumb has scrolled through a hundred reels, TikToks, and mirror selfies this morning, chances are you’ve seen the same corset top styled in ten different ways, the same Wannifuga dress on ten different bodies, and the same “clean girl” bun on countless heads. Everyone looks great. But also—everyone looks the same. And it makes you wonder—has social media, with all its glitz, filters, and algorithms, diluted personal style?
To even ask that is to wade into murky waters. After all, the digital space has given a voice to people who previously had no access to fashion’s elite circles. Suddenly, a girl in Lagos can inspire a girl in New York. A thrift-lover in Surulere could become a micro-influencer, and the Arise Fashion Week front-row style could go viral from a 30-second video. That’s powerful. That’s progress.
But let’s not ignore the irony: When everyone has the chance to stand out, more people are choosing to blend in.
We now live in the age of aesthetics—hyper-curated looks designed to fit neatly into hashtags: Y2K aesthetic, barbiecore, soft life, baddie, and everything in between. What was once a diverse and deeply personal expression of identity has become a trend carousel. You hop on, you hop off, you switch filters. You become a mood board. You become content.
“There was a time when personal style was about discovering what made you feel like you,” says fashion retailer Ozinna Anumudu. Now, it’s about discovering what makes your audience double-tap.”
Scroll through Instagram, and you’ll notice how algorithmic fashion has become. Outfits are chosen less for how they feel and more for how they perform. Colours that pop on feed. Silhouettes that cinch for reels. Even the way people pose—back slightly arched, chin tilted, phone angled high—is part of the uniform.
It’s not just influencers—ordinary folks feel the pressure too. One Lagos-based university student confesses, “Sometimes I buy outfits not because I love them, but because I know they’ll get likes. I know what my followers expect from me. I don’t want to disappoint.”
It’s exhausting. And it’s a bit tragic.
Because true style—raw, experimental, sometimes chaotic—is often forged in solitude. It’s the magic of pairing clashing prints because it feels fun. The joy of wearing something no one else would dare to. That kind of individuality doesn’t always photograph well. It doesn’t always go viral. But it’s real.
That’s not to say social media hasn’t birthed style icons. It absolutely has. But they tend to rise not because they follow trends, but in spite of them. Think of someone like Wisdom Kaye, the Nigerian-American model whose boundary-pushing menswear looks made him a standout on TikTok. Or even a few Nigerian fashion bloggers who mix Ankara with thrift finds in a way that’s so uniquely them that they practically invented their own genre.
It’s not about avoiding trends altogether. Trends are fun. They can be a part of your style story. But when every closet starts to look like an Instagram clone—white linen shirts, boxy blazers, strappy heels, neutral tones—you start to wonder if we’re dressing for ourselves or for a grid.
Still, there’s hope. The younger generation, particularly Gen Z, seems to be swinging the pendulum back toward individuality. They’re obsessed with thrifting, remixing vintage, and wearing outfits ironically or rebelliously. They’re not afraid to look “weird.” They’re reclaiming style as something less polished, less perfect, and a little more punk.
And maybe that’s where we find the sweet spot: between trend and truth. Between inspiration and imitation.
Because style isn’t just what you wear—it’s how you wear it. It’s the story behind the outfit. The confidence in the stride. No algorithm can teach that. No reel can replicate it. Because the most fashionable thing you can be in a world full of copies—is yourself.
