just because you both wear tabis doesn't mean you're soulmates

what does your first date outfit really say about you?

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As a fashion girlie, one of my favorite activities is helping friends figure out what to wear on first dates.

When I get a “first date outfit SOS” text from a good friend, I immediately snap into on-call stylist mode. Send me pics of five different outfits, I’ll give input on each one.

There’s something equally fascinating and endearing about the way even the most self-assured among us can turn into frantic chickens fussing over a pile of clothes on the bedroom floor. First dates carry the weight of first impressions, and I’ve seen the way they can induce a mini identity crisis or impulsive shopping spree.

Suddenly, we’re not sure if those jeans we wear everyday are the “right vibe,” or if that sequined dress we love comes off as “too much.” There are the practical considerations, of course—what’s the weather, are you walking or taking the train, is it day or night, etc—but at its core, the frenetic energy stems from the belief that what you wear represents some facet of who you are.

Whether we’re doing it consciously or not, we communicate things about ourselves through clothes. And vice versa—we pick up little tidbits of social information through what other people wear. It’s a way to sniff people out, which is why we feel sooo *perceived* in the context of date outfits.

But when it comes down to the question of what your outfit says about you, I always arrive at the paradoxical conclusion that clothes say everything yet nothing about a person.

For example—in "Worth It," part of Hinge's No Ordinary Love anthology, Hunter Harris touches on the way our clothes shape first impressions in dating. The story opens with Ola rolling up to new-date Lia's house in jogging pants, which she reads as a tad too casual.

A few months ago, I was hanging out with my friend S.

She was getting ready to go on a first date, and I went over to her house for moral support. There was an unspoken understanding that she would try on a bunch of outfits and I’d give my honest opinion on them.

I walked into her bedroom. It looked like a Paloma Wool sample sale had exploded in there. Knit dresses, stretchy tops with random cutouts, wide belts with medallion embellishments.

S chucked her phone at me as she disappeared into the bathroom to grab a towel for her still-damp hair. “Look at his Instagram, he kinda knows how to dress,” she said excitedly, voice warbled by the humidity and vent fan on the other side of the bathroom door.

I scrolled his feed: chore coats, technical outerwear in colors like lichen and oyster, Salomon sneakers, canvas tote bags. I could see why his fashion sense stood out among the typical Patagonia fleece uniform in San Francisco, which was important to her. S was drawn to people who shared her aesthetic sensibilities. It’s a natural point of connection, an easy conversation starter.

After what felt like ten outfit changes, she decided on a slinky gray top with loose jeans and black boots.

“It’s perfect. Very you,” I smile as I hug her goodbye.

Fast forward a few weeks, things fizzled out. Nothing dramatic happened—there just wasn’t a strong connection.

Sure, they liked a lot of the same music and natural wine bars and even both had a pair of tabis, but S said their conversations felt flat. Most crucially, “he doesn’t get my sense of humor,” she sighed.

I think there’s a good reminder in here for those of us who love fashion and self-express through clothing: liking (or consuming) the same things is not a substitute for understanding one another.

This applies to platonic and professional relationships, not just romantic! Personally, through my own experiences making friends in my late 20s, I’ve learned that it truly does not matter what sort of niche fashion stuff someone is into. We can like the same things but lack fundamental compatibility as people.

However, in the age of TikTok-fueled aesthetic trends, it can be easy to conflate the two.

Over the past few years I’ve noticed a rise in what I’ll call “fashion couple” content. You know what I mean: couples doing fit checks with a trendy audio, dressed in a way that communicates they share the same “taste.”

They always match aesthetically, whether it’s a goth or beachy or gorpy look. It’s unclear who influenced who, but it doesn’t really matter. They look really good together, like models from the same catalogue or obscure designer archival collection.

Perhaps the most potent internet fodder within this “fashion couple” genre is the tabi shoe couple. These clefted shoes have become a recognizable object that confers the status of “cool fashion person” to its wearer. Tabis have already begun to permeate the discourse around modern dating (like the viral story about the NYC tabi thief!).

Online, these couples post their matching shoes. The most common combo I see is guy in tabi loafers + girl in tabi ballerinas. The caption will read like an ssense-produced hallmark card, i.e. “the maison to my margiela” or “the couple that tabi together stay together.”

The comments affirm that this is kind of coupling is aspirational, i.e. “how does it feel to be living my dream” or “IT COUPLE.”

Here’s where I pause and say that these videos can be genuinely very sweet and fun and harmless! Obviously, you can like the same shoes and be a great romantic match.

But ultimately, just because you both wear tabis doesn’t mean you’re soulmates.

Your soulmate might actually wear extremely dorky shoes.

Your sense of style might be polar opposites.

The two of you might not “make sense” together.

And I think that’s a beautiful thing.

To read more stories about modern dating, check out No Ordinary Love, a Substack series of imperfect love stories by contemporary writers featuring real-life Hinge couples.

Not sure which one to read first? I recommend “Worth It” by Hunter Harris, which touches on the way our clothes shape first impressions in dating.

All opinions are entirely my own and The Molehill is not affiliated with any of the other mentioned parties.

xo viv