The Old Money Aesthetic, Decoded: Why Quiet Luxury Is Defining Fashion in 2026

There's a paradox at the heart of fashion right now. The most talked-about trend of the past three years is, by design, the one that refuses to look like a trend at all.

On TikTok, #OldMoney has surpassed 2.5 billion views. #OldMoneyAesthetic and #QuietLuxury follow close behind, generating nearly another billion combined. Depop reported a 70% increase in searches for collared shirts and a 76% jump for trench coats tied directly to this wave. Yet the whole point of the old money aesthetic is to look like you've never heard of TikTok — or at least like you'd never admit to using it.

This tension — between virality and timelessness, between aspiration and authenticity — is exactly what makes the old money aesthetic worth talking about beyond the usual "buy a blazer, wear beige" advice. Because something deeper is going on here, and it has far more to do with economics and psychology than it does with which shade of navy looks best on you.

First, a Clarification Most Style Guides Skip

The term "old money" has a specific sociological meaning that predates its TikTok life by about two centuries. Old money refers to inherited, multigenerational wealth — the Rockefellers, the Rothschilds, European aristocratic families whose fortunes were built in industries like shipping, banking, and land ownership. In the United States, it's historically associated with WASP (White Anglo-Saxon Protestant) culture and the Ivy League. In Europe, with aristocratic titles and landed gentry.

New money — the Kardashians, tech billionaires, self-made moguls — earns its wealth within a single lifetime. The cultural tension between these two categories has driven Western literature and social commentary for ages, from F. Scott Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby to HBO's Succession.

Here's what most old money aesthetic guides don't bother mentioning: the original old money families didn't dress to impress anyone. They dressed to recognize each other. The codes — the specific weave of a cashmere sweater, the patina on a pair of loafers, the absence of visible logos — functioned as social passwords, not fashion statements. When you already have the name, the estate, and the trust fund, you don't need your clothes to announce anything.

What's happened in the 2020s is a democratization of those codes. And that shift is neither purely superficial nor politically neutral — but we'll get to that.

The Economic Backdrop You Can't Ignore

Fashion doesn't happen in a vacuum. The old money aesthetic's explosion coincides with very specific economic conditions that help explain its appeal.

Gen Z entered adulthood in the aftermath of the 2008 financial crisis, navigated COVID-19 during their formative years, and now face housing markets, student debt levels, and job uncertainty that previous generations didn't encounter at the same age. According to Bain & Company's 2024 Luxury Market Study, the global personal luxury goods market reached approximately €1.48 trillion in 2024, but for the first time since 2016 (excluding the pandemic), luxury value creation actually declined year-over-year. The growth that did occur? Over 80% of it was driven by price increases, not by new buyers entering the market.

In other words: luxury got more expensive, but not more accessible.

At the same time, the secondhand luxury market has been exploding. It was valued at roughly $37 billion in 2024 and is growing at a compound annual rate of about 8.5% to 10%, significantly outpacing the new luxury goods market. Digital resale platforms alone are expanding at 20–30% per year. More than 58% of luxury resale buyers are under 35.

A J.P. Morgan survey from September 2025 found that 60% of consumers across the U.S. and Europe now use resale platforms to purchase secondhand luxury goods. In China, the firm's fieldwork showed high-net-worth individuals shifting toward understated style over ostentatious logos — a quiet luxury pivot happening at the top and the bottom of the market simultaneously.

So when a 22-year-old thrifts a Ralph Lauren cable-knit and styles it with pressed trousers from Depop, that's not just aesthetics. It's a rational economic response dressed up (literally) as a lifestyle choice.

The Psychology: Why "Less" Feels Like "More" Right Now

There's an economic theory from 1899 that keeps becoming relevant again. Thorstein Veblen, a Norwegian-American economist, coined the concept of "conspicuous consumption" — spending money on luxury goods specifically to display social status. For over a century, that was the dominant mode of luxury fashion: the bigger the logo, the clearer the signal.

But Veblen also described what happens when conspicuous consumption becomes too widely accessible: the truly wealthy start to differentiate themselves through inconspicuous consumption. When everyone can buy a logo-covered handbag at an outlet mall, the status signal degrades. The response? Eliminate the logos entirely. Spend $3,000 on a Loro Piana cashmere sweater that looks, to the untrained eye, indistinguishable from one that costs $80.

This is the cultural engine powering the old money aesthetic. It's not just about looking rich — it's about looking rich to the people who would recognize the difference, while appearing entirely unremarkable to everyone else.

What makes the 2020s iteration interesting is that social media has collapsed that information gap. TikTok's algorithm means a teenager in Jakarta now knows that a specific shade of camel on a coat signals Brunello Cucinelli. The "quiet" part of quiet luxury got very loud, very fast — which, if Veblen were alive, he'd probably find both predictable and amusing.

For Gen Z specifically, the psychological appeal runs deeper than status signaling. Research and cultural analysis suggest that in periods of economic uncertainty, fashion tends to become more conservative and covered-up. Economist George Taylor's "hemline index," proposed in 1926, theorized that skirts get longer during recessions. Whether or not you buy that specific theory, the broader pattern holds: when the world feels unstable, people gravitate toward clothing that feels grounded, enduring, and safe.

The old money aesthetic offers exactly that. Classic silhouettes, muted palettes, structured fabrics. It's a wardrobe that says "I am in control" during a time when very little feels controllable. For a generation raised on algorithm-driven micro-trends cycling every three weeks — from cottagecore to barbiecore to mob wife to tomato girl — the idea of a wardrobe that doesn't expire has genuine emotional appeal.

What the Aesthetic Actually Looks Like (Without the Clichés)

You've read the lists. Navy blazer. White button-down. Cashmere knit. Loafers. Pearls. This is all accurate, and also deeply boring to repeat for the hundredth time.

So instead of another inventory of items, here are the principles that actually distinguish an old money-informed wardrobe from one that just happens to contain beige clothes:

Fabric speaks before silhouette does. The fastest way old money dressers identified each other was through texture. A wool flannel trouser versus a polyester one, a silk blouse versus a satin-finish synthetic — the difference is invisible in photos and unmistakable in person. This is also where the old money aesthetic intersects with sustainability: natural fibers (cotton, wool, linen, silk) not only look better over time, they last longer. The wardrobe built on these materials is inherently more circular than one built on trend-cycle synthetics.

Fit is structural, not decorative. Old money tailoring isn't about looking perfectly "fitted" in the Instagram sense. It's about garments that are cut to move with the body — that drape rather than cling, that suggest a shape rather than outline it. Think of how a good trench coat falls: structured at the shoulder, easy through the torso, with enough fabric to move through a day without thinking about it.

Color acts as architecture, not decoration. The muted palette isn't arbitrary. Navy, cream, camel, grey, forest green, burgundy — these are colors that mix without clashing, that build outfits the way you'd build a room: with a coherent underlying structure that allows individual pieces to move in and out without disrupting the whole. This is the functional difference between a wardrobe and a collection of clothes.

Details are felt, not seen. A bone button instead of plastic. A French seam inside a blouse. The weight of a good buckle on a leather belt. Old money dressing locates quality in places that aren't visible at first glance — which, again, reflects the broader cultural logic: if you know, you know.

The Criticism That Deserves a Real Answer

It would be dishonest to write about the old money aesthetic without addressing its uncomfortable dimensions.

The aesthetic's historical roots are inseparable from very specific demographics: white, Western, Anglo-Protestant in the U.S.; aristocratic and landed in Europe. The muses that populate every mood board — Jackie Kennedy, Princess Diana, Carolyn Bessette-Kennedy, the fictional Roys of Succession — are overwhelmingly white. The leisure activities coded as "old money" — polo, sailing, tennis, skiing — are historically exclusionary in ways that track along lines of race and class.

When fashion critics at publications like Boshemia Magazine write that old money style risks being "how to dress like a colonizer," they're not being provocative for its own sake. They're pointing to something real: aesthetics carry histories, and those histories don't vanish just because the aesthetic gets repurposed on TikTok.

But the story doesn't end there. What Gen Z has actually done with the old money aesthetic is more complicated — and arguably more interesting — than a simple reproduction of WASP culture. The trend has been adopted and adapted globally, from Southeast Asia to Latin America, often mixed with local styling codes in ways that the original "old money" class would barely recognize. Style creators in Lagos, Seoul, and Mumbai are interpreting the principles — quality fabric, clean lines, muted sophistication — through their own cultural lenses, producing something that borrows the grammar while rewriting the vocabulary.

Fashion analyst Panzoni, quoted in Harper's Bazaar Australia, noted that the old money aesthetic has been "revitalized into a 21st-century reboot, removing the presence of logos and the 'only for rich and famous' stigma." The trend's emphasis on quality and craftsmanship, rather than on specific heritage brands, opens space for it to be genuinely democratic — if we let it.

The question isn't whether you "should" embrace the old money aesthetic. It's whether you can extract the useful principles — invest in quality, build a cohesive wardrobe, choose timelessness over trend-chasing — without uncritically importing the cultural baggage.

We think you can. And that's part of why we make the clothes we make.

Where RIHOAS Fits in This Conversation

RIHOAS was founded on a specific observation: there's a gap between the sensual elegance of designer fashion and the disposability of fast fashion. The women who inspire our designs aren't socialites or influencers. They're the characters in European cinema who walk into a scene and own it — not because of what they're wearing, but because of how they wear it. Confidence, charm, a sense that the clothes belong to the woman rather than the other way around.

This aligns with the best version of the old money aesthetic: not the one that's about performing wealth, but the one that's about investing in feeling good in your clothes for longer than one season.

We're not a heritage luxury house, and we're not going to pretend to be. Our price point sits between designer and fast fashion because that's where we believe the interesting work happens — finding fabrics that feel beautiful against skin, designing silhouettes rooted in European elegance, and making those things accessible without pretending they're something they're not.

When you choose a RIHOAS piece — whether it's a structured tweed jacket that echoes Chanel's vocabulary, a draped blouse with the kind of fabric hand you associate with Italian film, or a midi dress that moves between office and evening without a costume change — you're participating in the same impulse that drives the old money aesthetic at its best: the belief that your clothes should be chosen with intention, worn with ease, and built to last longer than a trend cycle.

How to Build This Kind of Wardrobe Without a Trust Fund

The old money aesthetic's most practical gift is that it's actually cheaper in the long run. A wardrobe of 30 well-chosen pieces that coordinate fully will serve you better — and cost less over five years — than a closet stuffed with 150 impulse purchases.

Here's how to think about it:

Start with what you already own. Pull out everything that's a solid neutral in a natural fabric. You probably have more old money building blocks than you think. A plain white t-shirt in good cotton. Dark jeans that fit well. A knit sweater that's held its shape. These are the foundation, not the things you need to replace.

Add structure next, color later. A blazer or a tailored coat is the single piece that does the most to shift a wardrobe's overall register. It doesn't need to be expensive — it needs to fit properly at the shoulder and not pull across the back. If it does those two things, it will read as ten times its price point.

Shop secondhand for heritage pieces. The luxury resale market exists for exactly this purpose. A pre-owned silk scarf, a vintage leather bag, a classic watch — these carry the patina and materiality that the old money aesthetic prizes, at a fraction of retail. They're also the most sustainable option available.

Invest where your body touches fabric most. The pieces closest to your skin — blouses, knits, trousers — are where material quality makes the biggest tactile difference. A cashmere-blend sweater versus an acrylic one. A cotton poplin shirt versus a polyester one. This is where spending a bit more translates directly into how you feel throughout the day.

Ignore the "rules." The most old money move you can make is to stop treating your clothes like a costume. No real old money dresser is consulting a mood board. They're reaching for the blazer because it's the blazer they've had for years and it still works. The goal isn't to look like you're performing an aesthetic. The goal is to build a wardrobe so functional and so reflective of your actual taste that getting dressed stops requiring thought.

The Trend That Isn't Really a Trend

Here's the thing about the old money aesthetic that separates it from every other micro-trend of the 2020s: it can't die, because it was never really born. The style principles it's built on — quality over quantity, coherence over novelty, fit over flash — predate TikTok, predate social media, predate the internet. They're as old as tailoring itself.

What will fade is the hashtag, the TikTok content cycle, the specific cultural moment that made "old money" the phrase of the season. Maximalism will come back (it's already returning in some runway shows for 2025 and 2026, with Valentino, Prada, and Balmain all leaning into bold embellishments and color). The pendulum always swings.

But the women who used this moment to rethink their wardrobes — who learned to prioritize fabric weight and fit and versatility over novelty — will keep getting dressed the same way long after #OldMoney stops trending. Because they weren't following a trend. They were building a closet.

That's the real point. Not the aesthetic. The practice.