She’s been posting a series of videos of herself posing in Brandy tops, pretending to be one of the disaffected teens that tend to work in the stores. Then there’s Lauren Servideo, a 27-year-old comic Vogue dubbed the Funniest Person on Instagram.
And Eden Deering, a curator at the Chelsea gallery P.P.O.W., buys Brandy Melville tube tops en masse (“only after 6 p.m.,” she says “so no one I know who works in Soho will see me”). Alison Chemla, the founder of fashion-girl favorite jewelry line Alison Lou, is a fervent, vocal fan of Brandy Melville’s Regina George–esque sweatpants.
There’s a growing cult of genuinely stylish, slightly abashed 20- and even 30-somethings turning to the brand for nostalgic, low-commitment (hardly anything is priced over $35) spaghetti-strap dresses and tube tops that would look as natural on Bella Hadid today as they would on Simple Life–era Paris Hilton.Ĭarmen Rosey Hall, a writer at Vogue, buys legions of the brand’s tiny, babydoll tees (“so many of them,” she says. But if you’re a millennial with connections to the fashion world, it might be the place where you’re shopping when no one is looking. If you’re someone who reads a lot of Twitter, you might know it from headlines like “Brandy Melville Epitomizes What Is Wrong With Our Society,” which tend to pop up every six months thanks to its tightly conscribed size range and lack of diversity, both in its stores and online. If you’re a teen mall girl, it’s an obvious place to buy shrunken, deeply inexpensive, decidedly Gen Z clothing. What you know about Brandy Melville depends on who you are. “I just love their tanks and tees,” she wrote. This summer, she posted a picture of herself in a ribbed tank top from, of all places, the teen-girl chain Brandy Melville. Alyssa Coscarelli is a sunny Instagram influencer in her late 20s - a former Refinery29 employee who is flown to various fashion weeks and tends to dress in downtown-ish brands like Maryam Nassir Zadeh, or Sandy Liang.
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