Near the start of this decade, we endured years of discussion around famous cisgender men, most notably Harry Styles, embracing feminine and androgynous looks. People debated whether the singer’s December 2020 Vogue cover, in which Styles donned a Gucci dress as the first man to appear solo on the front of the magazine, stole the spotlight from artists who have been transgressing gendered fashion norms for decades. As is the case with most hot-button topics, the vast majority of The Discourse was deeply unhelpful. Regrettably, some accused Styles of “queerbaiting,” a term that was only ever meant to apply to TV shows and not to real-life people.
But lost in all the reductive talk was a more nuanced point — one that Billy Porter addressed to Styles in a Late Show apology after initially criticizing the Vogue cover: “The conversation is not about you... It is about the systems of oppression and erasure of people of color who contribute to the culture.”
It’s that often unseen cultural production that I’ve been thinking about as a fascinating new internet discourse emerges in the mid-2020s: On the red carpet and beyond, cisgender celebrities are being celebrated online for making aesthetic choices that largely originate from trans communities. This trend became impossible to ignore earlier this year when Barry Keoghan attended the Golden Globes ceremony in a red Louis Vuitton suit with a wallet chain, leading the LGBTQ+ publication Into to playfully dub him “a transmasc icon.” On X, formerly Twitter, any queer person who saw the look immediately recognized the style as one they’ve seen before.
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But Keoghan’s red carpet ensemble is just the latest in a line of fashions that seem influenced by the sorts of trans styles one might encounter on a Bushwick street corner. Difficult to define with perfect precision, the trans aesthetic currently gaining mainstream traction is not so much about “cross-gender” expression à la Styles as it is about a certain kind of transgressive approach to fashion, one which deconstructs, exaggerates, and mixes classic gendered signifiers to playful effect. It’s a marked difference from the sort of classically elegant glam that once dominated magazine covers: There was Kim Kardashian’s 2022 Interview Magazine shoot, which found the reality star in a frosty blonde wig with bleached brows, double denim, and a jockstrap — a decidedly trans-coded look from a symbol of aspirational femininity. She was also named one of GQ’s “Men of the Year,” which speaks for itself. (Not to mention her contribution to the popularization of contouring in the 2010s, a makeup technique that originated among Black drag queens.) There’s Julia Fox’s entire sense of style; many of the outfits worn by the Uncut Gems muse could easily be found on a doll at a Brooklyn rave. And even beyond Keoghan, other cis male stars have drawn descriptors like “transmasc energy” on social media, including Charlie Puth, whose 2022 GQ shoot would look right at home in Original Plumbing, and Timothée Chalamet. The trend is widespread enough to wonder if there’s actually something behind all the online jokes: Are celebrities consciously trying to adopt trans style? Or are they unknowingly following trends that our community set first?
Either way, this would not be a new phenomenon. Black and brown trans women have long played an integral role in shaping the sorts of countercultural styles that eventually become mainstream fashion and beauty trends. Jules Gill-Peterson, a Johns Hopkins University professor who specializes in transgender history, says that over the last several decades, working-class trans women in cities like New York and Los Angeles have served as “inspiration” for stylists and makeup artists, in addition to filling informal roles in those industries.
“I think you could look at it in any particular industry, but especially in modeling, because ideals of femininity aren't actually supposed to look like the average,” she tells Them. “They’re supposed to look exceptional. It makes sense that trans femininity has long been very valued when it's sort of stealth, but on display.”
This has been a controversial cultural dynamic ever since Madonna’s “Vogue” brought ballroom to the fore while the trans communities who originated the aesthetic remained in poverty. But the extent to which this process is occurring, and the major platforms that trans styles are now reaching, does feel new in its scope. The Kim Kardashian of the 2020s, after all, is a far more normative figure than Madonna was in the ’80s and ’90s, when she sang in front of burning crosses and had a video banned from MTV. Trans aesthetics are inching closer to the cultural center than ever before.
Gill-Peterson points out that this new wave of trans aesthetics going mainstream coincides with the era of “trans hypervisibility.” We’ve come a long way since Time magazine declared that 2014 marked a “trans tipping point.” The tenor of that cover story may have been overly optimistic about our political prospects, given the right-wing assault on LGBTQ+ rights that followed, but the past decade has indeed seen the emergence of a bona fide trans celebrity class, from Laverne Cox, who served as the face of the tipping point, to Janet Mock, Hunter Schafer, Hari Nef, Kim Petras, Arca, and many more. While those women rose to prominence as out trans people, still more figures have come out after already having achieved entertainment industry success, including Elliot Page and Caitlyn Jenner.
“The relationship of various culture industries to trans women is a little bit different when it's not just old-fashioned cultural appropriation now that there actually are also trans woman celebrities,” Gill-Peterson observes.
But perhaps the most direct impacts on contemporary styling are being made by trans beauty and fashion professionals, who have reached new footholds in their respective industries. Dara Allen, who is also the fashion director at Interview Magazine, was recently named to The Hollywood Reporter’s annual list of the most powerful stylists in Hollywood for her work with Hunter Schafer. Sterling Tull is responsible for Chappell Roan’s now-iconic Tiny Desk concert makeup. Kyle Luu collaborated extensively with Solange as the singer ushered in a new, more avant garde era. Wendi Miyake counts the Kardashians and Madonna among her regular clients. Laurel Charleston has painted Melanie Martinez, Doja Cat, Dylan Mulvaney, Normani and Teyana Taylor, with her work appearing on numerous magazine covers. If a beloved cisgender celebrity is wearing a “trans look,” it could be because an actual trans artist crafted it.
“What has been so cool about working in celebrity makeup is being able to see and meet the incredible trans women who are on the teams of so many huge celebrities,” Charleston tells Them via email, name-checking Miyake, Tokyo Stylez, and Erika La’Pearl as “some of the many dolls behind some of the most iconic glams today.”
“Your fave celebs being glammed by trans women means that they are directly responsible for so many of the trends, styles, and beats we become so obsessed with as a culture — and that has been so fucking cool to witness and now be part of it in a small way,” she adds.
Yet cis celebrities benefitting from trans styling raises similar questions as Harry Styles’ skirt once did — questions that deserve nuanced consideration instead of being reduced to buzzwords like “appropriation.” After all, can a look truly be considered appropriation if the people behind it are trans themselves? For LJ Perez, a stylist who has worked with Geena Rocero, Doja Cat, Karol G, Charli XCX, Shawn Mendes, Christina Aguilera, and more, the question is less whether cis celebrities can adopt trans-coded looks, and more about who receives recognition.
“We hear words like authenticity as if it’s a ‘new thing,’ but trans folks have been showing the world how it’s done while looking great,” Perez says. “When famous cis celebs are rewarded and commended simply by ‘wearing’ what is considered the opposite sex, I can’t help but think that for trans folks, playing with different expressions is simply their way of being. Give credit where credit is due.”
It seems clear that mainstream experimentation with gender is a net social good, especially at a time when normalizing trends like “girlhood” are taking root once again in fashion. But what does it mean to give credit, as Perez urges? For one, it has become an increasingly common practice for celebrities and magazines to tag the creative teams behind the looks that they post on social media, which at least acknowledges the people who were directly involved.
Noting the broader influence of trans women is a much bigger and more nebulous prospect, but it seems as though the least cisgender celebrities could do is acknowledge that trans people exist at all, if not use their influence to elevate our community. Julia Fox, for example, recently executive produced a trans-themed film; other celebrities wearing looks shaped by trans creatives don’t put their money where their mouth is. At a time when anti-trans legislation (and in turn, anti-trans violence) is reaching historic heights, that discrepancy is a cause for scrutiny.
It’s even more concerning given the fact that trans celebrities themselves do not seem to be given the same latitude to wear bold looks. With some exceptions, trans public figures of a certain stature are often styled and glammed in rather conventional ways. Elliot Page’s 2022 Esquire cover had him in a white T-shirt and jeans, wearing a silver chain and rings. The photo is in black-and-white, presumably to evoke a sense of classic masculinity that stretches all the way from James Dean to Abercrombie & Fitch ads. Throughout 2023, Dylan Mulvaney similarly seemed to be aiming for a mid-century beauty look, from her face reveal video to her red carpet appearances. Gigi Gorgeous belongs in the dictionary next to the phrase “blonde bombshell.”
These looks aren’t bad; they’re classic styles for a reason. It’s also difficult to say — without deeply personal access — whether these fashions simply reflect their respective wearers: Trans people, like cis people, are perfectly within their rights to embrace more classically gendered looks, and criticizing them for not being more outré is putting an asymmetric burden on an already precarious and relatively new class of celebrity.
But occasionally, we get glimpses of the sorts of internal and external pressures that may be shaping these fashion choices. Notably, when Mulvaney wore a sleek pinstriped suit for a Them cover story last year, she said it “unlocked something in me.”
“I was so scared of being perceived as this masculine monster in that first year…I thought there was safety in hyperfemininity,” Mulvaney said. “But now that even that’s getting used against me, I was like, screw it — let’s pick the suit. If people want to equate me with just dresses and makeup, let’s show them this.”
Mulvaney’s admission points to the fact that trans celebrities may feel shunted into an impossible position. All famous people are subject to intense scrutiny, especially when it comes to their appearance; adding transness on top of the usual pressures of fame heightens the stakes immeasurably. Much like the general trans population, it makes sense that rising trans stars might adopt more normative forms of expression in exchange for a greater sense of safety or stability.
“I just think that trans people are criticized so much more than cis celebrities,” Charleston, who has glammed Mulvaney, observes. “It’s so much mentally and emotionally to put yourself in the spotlight and to be exposed to what is limitless hatred and vitriol from most of America.”
One of a few notable exceptions here is Laverne Cox: her red-carpet looks, largely styled in collaboration between herself and Christina Pacelli, are consistently stunning and experimental, frequently pulling from her own personal couture archive. (In a separate interview with me, she joked about having a “Mugler habit” that she had to get together.) She’s not the only trans star pushing style boundaries, of course, but she is perhaps the most famous and probably the most inventive — a noteworthy choice for someone who was once the face of the trans tipping point in an incredibly boring business-casual navy dress.
“I can understand why some trans celebs might not want to shake up their look too much and open themselves up to additional criticism on their appearance,” Charleston says. “But it is my biggest hope that through my work I can make my trans family maybe a little more comfortable with being visually expressive and going outside the box.”
Of course, that expressive freedom is a two-way street: For trans stars to be able to wear the sort of innovative looks their communities pioneered, they need to be afforded the same room to experiment and play with gender. As it stands, in an industry where public perception is everything, fashion choices can have material consequences, as Gill-Peterson points out.
“Trans women suffer a very distinct penalty for their appearance in any sector that they work in, and so there’s kind of a need to minimize your femininity in the sense of dressing very conventionally or conservatively, trying to appear like an average woman,” she says. “This is a strategy for survival for holding onto employment that we could see in any number of fields in the labor market, but it’s really interesting to point to sectors where actually, appearance is part of the job, because it sort of intensifies that penalty.”
While trans women celebrities may be grappling with these pressures most publicly, transmasculinity is also beginning to enter the discourse around fashion and beauty in surprising, and sadly often infantilizing ways. The historical truth is that trans men haven’t had nearly as much impact on fashion and beauty as trans women have over the last 50 years. That means the looks that the general public often code as “transmasc” have more to do with the prevailing trend toward androgyny in menswear that has emerged in response to a more general visibility of queer and trans people in public life.
That makes looks like Keoghan’s ostensibly “T-boy coded” red carpet attire a relatively new kind of fashion moment — and one with interesting cultural consequences. Ultimately, the kinds of social media comments these looks elicit may tell us more about ourselves and our views of transmasc people than they do about the stars themselves. “What they’re saying is he’s not really the caricature of men that we have been led to believe,” Gill-Peterson says of people projecting trans energy onto Keoghan. “It’s just that he’s short and appears less threatening and can be imagined in a sort of subordinate or feminized social role, even if that’s not actually true about him.” Notably, the cis celebrities who are deemed “transmasc-coded” seem to be almost exclusively white so far — which is emblematic of the sort of “avant garde hipster aesthetic,” as Gill-Peterson puts it, that the public is beginning to associate with transmasculinity, to perhaps troublesome effect.
But Gill-Peterson’s overarching concern is that actual trans people will get left behind even as their aesthetics enter the mainstream. “Poor transsexual women, Black and brown trans women, they might be the cultural tastemakers,” she says. “But it’s at the point where their taste has been abstracted, commodified, and circulated without any real attention to what it would mean to give them credit beyond sort of a liberal culture saying, ‘Look how progressive we are.’”
In 2024, trans people are more visible than ever, in ways both thrilling and utterly terrifying. We see and hear echoes of trans style, language, and humor on screens large and small, while real-life trans people are afraid of losing healthcare, facing violence, and having our very existence criminalized. In that sense, the current mainstreaming of trans culture is an eerie echo of the “Vogue” era captured by Pose, when queer and trans people in ballroom were dying of AIDS amid government inaction even as their influence worked its way onto the covers of magazines.
Perhaps this cultural moment can be considered a canary in the coal mine — though let’s hope not. Regardless, we can learn a lesson from the queer and trans communities who lived through that harrowing time: you might try to push us out of public life, but you’ll always want to look like us.
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