It’s official: luxury has entered its Clean Girl era. You know the aesthetic—center-parted hair, minimalist makeup, and a “sustainably sourced” tote bag that looks virtuous until you check the care label. Fashion houses are leaning hard into this rebrand, churning out press releases loaded with promises of “net zero by 2030,” “radical transparency,” and “artisan empowerment” as if a few well-placed buzzwords can erase decades of extravagance. CEOs now pose solemnly beside potted saplings or mushroom leather prototypes, projecting the kind of corporate virtue that photographs well on LinkedIn. The narrative is clear: the same companies that once glorified exotic skins, gold hardware, and private jet runway tours have supposedly discovered their ethical core. But this is no moral awakening. It is a strategic exfoliation designed to buff away the rough patches of bad PR while leaving the machinery of hyper-growth untouched. Behind the mushroom totes and recycled cashmere hides the same industrial scale production chains that rely on layers of subcontractors and questionable oversight. Sustainability targets are still conveniently pegged to dates decades away, giving brands plenty of runway to maintain business as usual. This isn’t about saving the planet. It’s about saving face and selling virtue at a premium.

Cozy sweaters, warm lattes, and the SAINT LAURENT Loulou—fall perfection in bag form.

When Greenwashing Becomes the Dress Code

If there is one thing luxury does flawlessly, it is aestheticizing responsibility. Sustainability has been turned into a design motif, woven into collections like a limited-edition monogram. Capsule lines arrive in muted earth tones, runway shows feature recycled plastic sets, and campaign videos show models cradling baby goats on regenerative farms. Meanwhile, the actual numbers—the emissions, the overproduction, the labor exploitation—are relegated to footnotes no one reads. It is less about changing systems and more about dressing up the status quo in eco-chic packaging.

This performative greening works because it caters to an audience that craves moral validation alongside their retail therapy. Owning a “sustainable” luxury item signals not just wealth but discernment, a kind of ethical superiority that looks good on Instagram. But make no mistake, the house still runs on the same turbocharged engines of growth and scale. The new uniform may be linen shirts and organic cotton dresses, but behind the scenes, it is business as usual—faster production cycles, global shipping networks, and a supply chain held together by opacity and subcontractors.

Eco chic on the runway business as usual behind the curtain

The Infinite Loop of “Limited Edition”

Luxury loves to talk about slowing down, yet somehow it keeps churning out “limited edition” collections at a speed that would make a fast-fashion brand blush. Seasonal drops, capsule collabs, anniversary reissues—each one hyped as a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to buy less but better. In reality, they are carefully engineered scarcity plays designed to trigger panic buying, all while maintaining the illusion of restraint. The marketing is brilliant: exclusivity as a virtue, urgency as a lifestyle.

The irony? This strategy ensures nothing ever really feels rare. When every month brings a new “drop” and every influencer’s feed looks like a catalogue of the same eco-conscious logos, the extraordinary becomes routine. Luxury’s attempt to square its growth addiction with its sustainability PR reads less like innovation and more like a carefully choreographed juggling act. It is a spectacle that distracts from the simple truth that consuming less—not consuming differently—is the only thing that would truly make a difference.

Limited edition on repeat because nothing says sustainability like endless drops of must have scarcity.

The Real Luxury? Doing Less

Here’s an uncomfortable thought for the boardrooms of Paris and Milan: perhaps the ultimate luxury is not another limited-edition drop or a carbon-neutral delivery van but restraint. In an age of hyperproduction and hyperconsumption, doing less—and making less—feels radical. Imagine a world where a fashion house releases one perfect collection every few years, where a bag is actually rare because it isn’t churned out in factory-sized workshops. That is a kind of scarcity no marketing budget can manufacture.

But as long as shareholders demand perpetual growth and consumers demand perpetual novelty, the Clean Girl rebrand will remain just that—a rebrand. Luxury’s conscience, it seems, is as curated as its Instagram grid. Until the industry learns to trade quantity for quality, sustainability will stay what it too often is now: an accessory. And the planet does not need another accessory.