Or How Fashion Finally Lost Its Last Marble While Rome Burns

By Penelope the Owl

Well, sugar, SKIMS went and unveiled a $32 thong sporting synthetic pubic hair last week, and honey, you’d have thought they’d announced the Second Coming of Elvis. The fashion establishment clutched its collective pearls, reached for the smelling salts, and commenced to having vapors all over social media. Some brave souls called it bold. Others declared it an abomination unto the Lord. Most just shrugged and called it Tuesday—which tells you everything you need to know about where we’ve landed as a civilization.

“Shocked? Hell no,” declares Mandy Lee, a fashion oracle who tracks trends with the dedication of a bloodhound tracking escaped convicts. “They know exactly what they’re doing—milking that buzz for all it’s worth.” And Lord knows, few spectacles generate more excitement than a thong with the social ambitions of a chia pet.

Hair—that most democratic of human accessories—has muscled its way back into the haute couture conversation, and this time it’s not content with its traditional real estate up top. No sir, it’s gone and annexed new territories down yonder like Sherman marching through Georgia. Designers like Dilara Findikoglu weave hair into sheer gowns like they’re spinning fairy tales, Simone Rocha ties it into bows prettier than Christmas morning, and Daniel Roseberry of Schiaparelli—never one to let good sense interfere with art—braids it into neckties.

This proves once and for all that the line between genius and stark-raving lunacy resembles a hairline: thin as tissue paper and rapidly disappearing.

Then we’ve got Hillary Taymour of Collina Strada, whose spring 2026 collection showcased hats made from human and synthetic hair—because apparently nothing says “springtime fresh” like wearing somebody else’s scalp. Makes you wonder if she’s been taking style tips from serial killers.

Mark my words, hairshirts will start popping up on dating apps next, because nothing whispers sweet nothings quite like literal self-torture. But the real kicker? Fashion’s gone and dragged merkins back from the dead like some kind of pubic necromancy.

The merkin—that ancient pubic wig once beloved by 18th-century courtesans and performance artists with too much time on their hands—has clawed its way back into the spotlight. John Galliano festooned his models with them at Maison Margiela like he was decorating Christmas trees in a brothel, and Duran Lantink printed both chest and pubic hair directly onto bodysuits for Jean Paul Gaultier. Smart move, really—saves runway models the time and razor burn while giving new meaning to “permanent press.”

Why this sudden resurrection of merkins and abandoning pubic landscaping?

Mandy Lee figures fashion’s just trying to wake up a world that’s gone numb from overexposure. “We’ve watched police brutality and school shootings parade across our screens every damn day,” she explains. “So, what’s left that can actually shock folks anymore?”

Apparently, the answer grows in dark places and costs more than most people’s grocery budget these days.

This ain’t exactly groundbreaking territory, darlin’. Tom Ford once groomed Gucci’s “G” logo into a model’s nether regions like he was creating crop circles for very specialized aliens, and back in 1994, Carla Bruni strutted down a Vivienne Westwood runway wearing little more than a merkin and a prayer. It worked then, and it works now—assuming your definition of “working” means “getting people to discuss pubic hair instead of the climate crisis, healthcare costs, or why democracy’s circling the drain.”

For decades, that pendulum swung hard toward the waxed, the lasered, the perpetually pink and smooth as a politician’s lies. But the pendulum—or maybe it’s the razor—has dulled considerably. Culture now embraces the au naturel look or at least embraces buying it pre-packaged like everything else in this godforsaken consumer hellscape. Need proof? “Januhairy” encourages women to let it grow wild like proud feminist ferns reaching toward the sun, though I suspect most participants cave by February 3rd.

Yet Liz Plank from the Boy Problems podcast points out an irony thicker than a 1970s porn star’s mustache: “Fashion’s just selling natural beauty back to women,” she observes with the weary wisdom of someone who’s seen this movie before. “It ain’t natural if someone has to curate it aesthetically—or if it costs thirty-two dollars and arrives in eco-friendly packaging with a care instruction manual and probably its own Instagram account.”

So here we sit in this brave new world where body hair has transformed from embarrassing nuisance to fashion statement, while politicians gut public education funding and billionaires play rocket ship. Whether braided, printed, glued on, or homegrown, hair’s back—and this time it comes accessorized with a side of late-stage capitalism.

Still, a person can’t help wondering what fresh hell awaits us next. Eyelash extensions for elbows? A toupee for your belly button? Maybe a chest-hair cape for those chilly evenings when regular old dignity just won’t cut it? Hell, at this rate, we’ll probably see armpit hair scrunchies by Christmas and nose hair necklaces by Valentine’s Day.

Whatever fashion dreams up next, one thing’s certain as death, taxes, and Texas humidity: they’ll keep plucking, waxing, and reattaching our collective self-respect—all in the sacred name of style. Meanwhile, actual problems pile up higher than hair in a 1980s music video, but at least we’ll look fabulous while civilization crumbles.

Me? I’m holding out for the day they release a cashmere cardigan sprouting real armpit hair. Sure, it’ll itch like fire ants at a church picnic, but honey, just think of the authenticity. Besides, if we’re gonna fiddle while Rome burns, might as well look ridiculous doing it.