In the grid of product listings, a yellow rectangle indicates if a product is trending: “Trending–Plazacore,” “Trending–Western,” “Trending–Mermaidcore,” and “Trending–Y2K” tags all appear in the new arrivals. “Plazacore” is blazers and faux-tweed in pastels and beige. “Mermaidcore” means a pileup of sequins and glitter. “Western” brings up fringe jackets and bustier tops, fake leather cowboy boots and leopard-print silk blouses. The collection is unimpressive in small doses but starts feeling remarkable as you click through the pages: more than 3,900 items, astoundingly, are “Western.” If I search the word trending, there are 4,800 items to scroll through, labeled with trends I’ve never heard of even after a decade-plus of closely following fashion blogs and Instagram accounts: Bikercore, Dopamine Dressing, RomComCore, Bloke Core. Each phrase alone generates hundreds or thousands of search results of garments ready to purchase and ship.
SHEIN is the world’s most googled clothing brand, the largest fast-fashion retailer by sales in the United States, and one of the most popular shopping apps in the world. Its website is organized into dozens of categories: WOMEN, CURVE, HOME, KIDS, MEN, and BEAUTY, among others, though the women’s clothing section anchors the site. There are hundreds of thousands of products available, and many of them are sorted into SHEIN’s collections. There’s SHEIN EZwear, which is solid-color knitwear and sweatpants with cutouts, and SHEIN FRENCHY, which means delicate floral prints, lace, and bows. SHEIN Modesty shows conservative, long-sleeve dresses worn by Middle Eastern–looking models, and SHEIN SXY, which is indistinguishable from SHEIN VCAY and SHEIN ICON, features garments so skimpy they’re closer to napkins than clothes. SHEIN Belle, the copy at the top of the page tells me, “offers the best dress for your best memory.” It’s incoherent to me at first, but the collection begins to make sense as I scroll: it’s clothing for wedding guests and promgoers, who can buy a velvet dress in the collection for $5.49. (...)
By the early 2010s, the phrase fast fashion had been in circulation for a couple of decades but had yet to acquire a widespread pejorative connotation. Though the 1990s saw the rise of a robust anti-sweatshop movement, the public consensus a few decades later was that fast-fashion stores were a different kind of retail experience, but not necessarily an evil one... The rare hesitations — like a 2008 New York Times article that considered “a feeling of unease at how the ultra-cheap clothes can be manufactured” — were afforded significantly less space.
The sewing bloggers, however, were already voicing their concerns. They called out the chains who ripped off styles by independent designers to a comically exact degree (clothing isn’t copyrightable under current laws, so the chains got away with it) and cited Overdressed, a 2012 Fast Food Nation–style exposé about the fast-fashion industry that brought the horrors of speedy garment production to light. I learned that any new clothing I could ever afford would be far from a fair price for all the skill and labor involved in its creation. Garment workers were toiling in bleak conditions, working sixteen-hour days, seven days per week for pennies in crumbling factories full of toxic chemicals in China, India, and Vietnam; cheaper price tags pointed to worse conditions and, unimaginably, even worse pay. I also learned about the environmental costs — the oil to run the equipment, the factory pollution spewed into the air, the energy required to fly and ship garments around the globe, and the billions of pounds of fabric waste destined for landfills, never to decompose. (...)
TikTok was where I learned about SHEIN. For a while my For You page, which had accurately identified my interest in fashion’s more material impacts, served me videos of sustainable fashion influencers decrying SHEIN’s wretched labor and environmental practices. The textile industry is the second-largest polluter in the world, they said, and of all the fast-fashion producers, SHEIN is by far the worst offender. SHEIN uses toxic chemicals in their clothing production; SHEIN mass-produces fabrics like spandex that never decompose (at this point an image would flash across the screen: an overflowing clothing landfill, or a mountain of discarded clothes in the Chilean desert so large it is visible from space); SHEIN exploits and endangers its factory workers. Employees earn $556 a month to make five hundred pieces of clothing every day, work eighteen-hour days, and use their lunch breaks to wash their hair — a schedule they repeat seven days per week with only one day off per 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.” (...)
SHEIN works both with “original design manufacturers” that design and produce the clothes on the SHEIN website, and “original equipment manufacturers” that make SHEIN-designed clothing under the watchful eye of the brand. By some reports the company has close to six thousand factories making its clothes, many of which are centralized in a single geographic area. The company puts an unusual amount of money and trust into its suppliers, providing them access to the brand’s data and IT systems and requiring very little to start doing business: no deposits or entry fees, just an agreement that the factory will provide stable and reliable delivery. Meanwhile SHEIN has invested nearly $1 million making “standardized factory buildings” designed by SHEIN for the maximally efficient production of SHEIN clothing, with plans to invest nearly $14 million more.
Away from the computer, I began to look more closely at strangers’ outfits, trying to imagine where they’d come from. That checkerboard-patterned pair of pleated trousers on the straphanger across from me — were they from SHEIN? What about those pink hair clips in the shape of flowers, or that national park–themed T-shirt? Was the company already manufacturing garments with Brooklyn-specific references and knockoff New Yorker tote bags? The neon-green bikini my friend from high school wore once on Instagram, never to be seen again — SHEIN? (OK, almost definitely.) But that sweater, which looked suspiciously like a minor designer piece I saved up for months to purchase for myself — was that SHEIN, too? Was the whole world shopping at SHEIN?
by Nicole Lipman, N+1 | Read more:
Image: Hart Hallos
[ed. Reminds me of Temu, another rising Chinese/Amazon-type online business (for cheap everything, not just fashion).
Usually brand familiarity accrues in a slow drip, building from obscurity to instant recognizability over the course of months or years as a designer’s work intersects with the zeitgeist and gains traction on social media. SHEIN was different. One day I’d never heard of the retailer and the next it was inescapable: in thousands of outfit videos, on millions of social media feeds. The clothes weren’t distinct or cohesive; what united them wasn’t style but price. All those SHEIN hauls entered my feeds with such ubiquity that they began to feel like they’d always been there. I’d opened a door to a new part of the fashion internet: a place where girls bragged about their ultra-fast-fashion purchases, delighting in the cheapness of the garments. Here, SHEIN was the obvious choice for new clothes. Why not, when you could buy on-trend pieces at lightning speed for less than the price of a cup of coffee?
It was uncanny to bounce between videos: here was a girl showing off her new halter, here was another girl giving a litany of reasons why it was unconscionable to buy clothes for so little money. Didn’t these TikTokers hear one another? But then again, how could they? “This is what we keep missing here in the whole conversation about sustainability in the industry,” Nick Anguelov, a professor of public policy from UMass Dartmouth, said to a Slate journalist writing about SHEIN in June. “We keep failing to understand that our customers are kids and they don’t give a fuck.” (...)
The rise of SHEIN marks a new era in the fast-fashion industry. The company produces garments at a rate incomprehensible to its predecessors, all of which were already producing a world-historical quantity of products at an incredible clip. In a recent twelve-month period in which former fast-fashion giants Gap, H&M, and Zara listed twelve to thirty-five thousand new products on their websites, SHEIN listed 1.3 million. Last year, the company brought in $22 billion in revenue, a staggering statistic for a corporation that’s been around in its current form for less than a decade.
SHEIN spent years cultivating relationships with producers. At first factories were reluctant to take orders from the company — like Zara, SHEIN wanted to place orders of just one hundred pieces and scale up or down depending on demand for each style, which was risky because it’s more profitable for factories to produce in bulk; typical orders from clothing companies number in the thousands per style. But SHEIN rapidly developed a reputation for paying factories on time, an industry rarity that generated powerful goodwill and a willingness on the part of factories to take the risk. SHEIN quickly developed the high-tech version of Zara’s small-order, quick-response production method, in which store managers collect data about sales and customer preferences and report it back to the factories to adjust production runs. The company’s custom-built production software identifies which products are selling well on the SHEIN website and reorders them from manufacturers automatically. Similarly, the software reportedly halts production automatically for any products selling poorly. It’s a flexible system built for the internet’s microscopic attention span: all products are tested on SHEIN’s website and app in real time. Garments go from concept to finished product in less than two weeks, allowing SHEIN to be the first retail company to market on every trend, even the most micro ones. The system has proven massively successful.
It was uncanny to bounce between videos: here was a girl showing off her new halter, here was another girl giving a litany of reasons why it was unconscionable to buy clothes for so little money. Didn’t these TikTokers hear one another? But then again, how could they? “This is what we keep missing here in the whole conversation about sustainability in the industry,” Nick Anguelov, a professor of public policy from UMass Dartmouth, said to a Slate journalist writing about SHEIN in June. “We keep failing to understand that our customers are kids and they don’t give a fuck.” (...)
The rise of SHEIN marks a new era in the fast-fashion industry. The company produces garments at a rate incomprehensible to its predecessors, all of which were already producing a world-historical quantity of products at an incredible clip. In a recent twelve-month period in which former fast-fashion giants Gap, H&M, and Zara listed twelve to thirty-five thousand new products on their websites, SHEIN listed 1.3 million. Last year, the company brought in $22 billion in revenue, a staggering statistic for a corporation that’s been around in its current form for less than a decade.
SHEIN spent years cultivating relationships with producers. At first factories were reluctant to take orders from the company — like Zara, SHEIN wanted to place orders of just one hundred pieces and scale up or down depending on demand for each style, which was risky because it’s more profitable for factories to produce in bulk; typical orders from clothing companies number in the thousands per style. But SHEIN rapidly developed a reputation for paying factories on time, an industry rarity that generated powerful goodwill and a willingness on the part of factories to take the risk. SHEIN quickly developed the high-tech version of Zara’s small-order, quick-response production method, in which store managers collect data about sales and customer preferences and report it back to the factories to adjust production runs. The company’s custom-built production software identifies which products are selling well on the SHEIN website and reorders them from manufacturers automatically. Similarly, the software reportedly halts production automatically for any products selling poorly. It’s a flexible system built for the internet’s microscopic attention span: all products are tested on SHEIN’s website and app in real time. Garments go from concept to finished product in less than two weeks, allowing SHEIN to be the first retail company to market on every trend, even the most micro ones. The system has proven massively successful.
SHEIN works both with “original design manufacturers” that design and produce the clothes on the SHEIN website, and “original equipment manufacturers” that make SHEIN-designed clothing under the watchful eye of the brand. By some reports the company has close to six thousand factories making its clothes, many of which are centralized in a single geographic area. The company puts an unusual amount of money and trust into its suppliers, providing them access to the brand’s data and IT systems and requiring very little to start doing business: no deposits or entry fees, just an agreement that the factory will provide stable and reliable delivery. Meanwhile SHEIN has invested nearly $1 million making “standardized factory buildings” designed by SHEIN for the maximally efficient production of SHEIN clothing, with plans to invest nearly $14 million more.
SHEIN has made unorthodox choices on the marketing side, too. The company was early to the influencer game, sending promotional products to bloggers as far back as 2012. SHEIN advertised on social media and relied on digital word of mouth to move merchandise — obvious strategies a decade later, but novel ones at the time. Today, SHEIN contracts thousands of influencers around the globe, sending them enormous amounts of free product in exchange for social media posts. In turn, influencers earn commissions on the SHEIN products sold with their unique discount codes; some earn a flat-rate fee from the company, too. As a result SHEIN is the most talked-about brand on TikTok, Instagram, and YouTube, the centers of the Gen Z internet. More posts beget more attention beget more posts, from influencers and regular consumers alike. SHEIN even figured out how to maximally capitalize on that attention beyond social media by gamifying the shopping experience. The more you buy, the more SHEIN points you receive, and the more you save on future purchases. It’s purposefully addictive. You can get points by just opening the app, watching live streams, or playing mini games on the SHEIN website. In one game, the user moves a shopping basket from left to right, collecting an abundance of shoes, dresses, and sunglasses falling like magic from the top of the screen while avoiding increasingly fast sobbing emojis.
In some respects, SHEIN resembles Amazon more than a fast-fashion retailer: its catalog of merchandise is so expansive that it functions more like a search engine than a clothing store. It maintains no permanent physical storefronts, and as such is unconstrained by square footage, retail labor, or rent. Low overhead means low prices, and in the same way Amazon always offers the cheapest available option for any product, SHEIN is the place for the cheapest clothes in the industry. Shirts at Forever 21 are scandalously inexpensive — easily less than $20, though generally more than $10 — but comparable shirts at SHEIN sell for loose change. Even the user experience is similar, in the way that both Amazon and SHEIN feel junkified: pages are unpolished, with varying product listings and completely unpredictable product qualities. For all the environmental and labor horrors of H&M, at least shopping at hm.com feels like shopping at a real clothing store. SHEIN, conversely, is a microcosm of the internet and a sibling of the internet’s other most powerful retailer: weird, clunky, and seemingly thrown together. (...)
The reviews are typical for a SHEIN item. Customers add photos of themselves, holding phone cameras to mirrors to capture their outfits. Every image is a selfie. “OBSESSED!!!!” they write, adding, “(likes are appreciated <3).” Likes are a currency, convertible into SHEIN points. Posting a review earns five points, a review with pictures earns ten, and a review with size information earns an additional two. Every dollar spent on SHEIN earns a point, and every one hundred points turns back into a dollar. The economy flourishes: “Please like I need points to buy this in a different color.” “Please LIKE MY REVIEW and help your broke girl out. (Sorry I can’t post wearing the items- broke shoulder- thanks for understanding!)” “Absolutely in love with these pants wearing them right now super cute please like I’m broke LOL.” “(pls like I need points).”
Other customers focus on the quality of the garments. Pieces are “surprisingly good,” “really well made,” “not see through.” Texture points to quality: “Feels nice for the price.” “Doesn’t feel cheap.” “Im autistic and i hve sensory issues and if actually doesn’t itch at all.” They read like preemptive defenses, or maybe expressions of genuine surprise. (...)
Taken en masse, there’s a feeling of camaraderie found in the reviews, of people sharing tips, suggestions, and advice. But sometimes, the advice is bot to person. A comment on a mint-green dress: “Nice one and beautiful size size and beautiful dress size size and beautiful beautiful size and beautiful dress size size and beautiful dress nice size and beautiful dress size size and beautiful dress dress and dress dress size size and beautiful dress.” Deep in the product reviews for a pair of $15 gray sweatpants, one commenter writes, bafflingly: “I love these grey sweatpants ever since i received them out of the shein package. They go with almost everything and nice and baggy on my body. The color is easy to wash and can go with coloreds and whites which is very helpful in laundry.” Below, three photos are attached. They show three different women in three different pairs of pants, none of which match the product listing. (...)
In some respects, SHEIN resembles Amazon more than a fast-fashion retailer: its catalog of merchandise is so expansive that it functions more like a search engine than a clothing store. It maintains no permanent physical storefronts, and as such is unconstrained by square footage, retail labor, or rent. Low overhead means low prices, and in the same way Amazon always offers the cheapest available option for any product, SHEIN is the place for the cheapest clothes in the industry. Shirts at Forever 21 are scandalously inexpensive — easily less than $20, though generally more than $10 — but comparable shirts at SHEIN sell for loose change. Even the user experience is similar, in the way that both Amazon and SHEIN feel junkified: pages are unpolished, with varying product listings and completely unpredictable product qualities. For all the environmental and labor horrors of H&M, at least shopping at hm.com feels like shopping at a real clothing store. SHEIN, conversely, is a microcosm of the internet and a sibling of the internet’s other most powerful retailer: weird, clunky, and seemingly thrown together. (...)
The reviews are typical for a SHEIN item. Customers add photos of themselves, holding phone cameras to mirrors to capture their outfits. Every image is a selfie. “OBSESSED!!!!” they write, adding, “(likes are appreciated <3).” Likes are a currency, convertible into SHEIN points. Posting a review earns five points, a review with pictures earns ten, and a review with size information earns an additional two. Every dollar spent on SHEIN earns a point, and every one hundred points turns back into a dollar. The economy flourishes: “Please like I need points to buy this in a different color.” “Please LIKE MY REVIEW and help your broke girl out. (Sorry I can’t post wearing the items- broke shoulder- thanks for understanding!)” “Absolutely in love with these pants wearing them right now super cute please like I’m broke LOL.” “(pls like I need points).”
Other customers focus on the quality of the garments. Pieces are “surprisingly good,” “really well made,” “not see through.” Texture points to quality: “Feels nice for the price.” “Doesn’t feel cheap.” “Im autistic and i hve sensory issues and if actually doesn’t itch at all.” They read like preemptive defenses, or maybe expressions of genuine surprise. (...)
Taken en masse, there’s a feeling of camaraderie found in the reviews, of people sharing tips, suggestions, and advice. But sometimes, the advice is bot to person. A comment on a mint-green dress: “Nice one and beautiful size size and beautiful dress size size and beautiful beautiful size and beautiful dress size size and beautiful dress nice size and beautiful dress size size and beautiful dress dress and dress dress size size and beautiful dress.” Deep in the product reviews for a pair of $15 gray sweatpants, one commenter writes, bafflingly: “I love these grey sweatpants ever since i received them out of the shein package. They go with almost everything and nice and baggy on my body. The color is easy to wash and can go with coloreds and whites which is very helpful in laundry.” Below, three photos are attached. They show three different women in three different pairs of pants, none of which match the product listing. (...)
Away from the computer, I began to look more closely at strangers’ outfits, trying to imagine where they’d come from. That checkerboard-patterned pair of pleated trousers on the straphanger across from me — were they from SHEIN? What about those pink hair clips in the shape of flowers, or that national park–themed T-shirt? Was the company already manufacturing garments with Brooklyn-specific references and knockoff New Yorker tote bags? The neon-green bikini my friend from high school wore once on Instagram, never to be seen again — SHEIN? (OK, almost definitely.) But that sweater, which looked suspiciously like a minor designer piece I saved up for months to purchase for myself — was that SHEIN, too? Was the whole world shopping at SHEIN?
by Nicole Lipman, N+1 | Read more:
Image: Hart Hallos
[ed. Reminds me of Temu, another rising Chinese/Amazon-type online business (for cheap everything, not just fashion).
