Fashion Case Study: In Defense Of Pretty Little Liars

their outfits werent even that bad... y'all just love to be haters...

Apr 16, 2025

Your Honor, members of the jury…

If you’ve been subscribed to me for a while, especially for my fashion takes then you already know: I have opinions. Strong ones. Loud ones. Unapologetic ones. I

will tell you when something is hideous, when something is iconic, and when something is great, but I personally would never put it on my body.

But today? I stand before you not to prosecute an outfit, but to defend one. Or rather, to defend an entire show. Because I’m not here to hate on the clothes…I’m here to hate on y’all.

Yes, you. The people at home, scrolling through TikTok and Twitter, bored out of your minds, foaming at the mouth to slam anything that smells even remotely nostalgic. The ones calling everything from 2010 to 2015 “the ugliest era in fashion history.” You already did it to Sex and the City and now the slander has reached Pretty Little Liars. And quite frankly? I will not allow it.

Disclaimer:
While this piece is written in a playful and exaggerated tone, please remember it’s all in good fun. I’m very aware that Pretty Little Liars had its fair share of chaotic moments, both in storyline and fashion choices, especially in the later seasons. But that doesn’t erase the cultural impact the show had or how influential it was at its peak.

Also, I kindly ask that everyone be respectful in the comments. This was meant to be a creative and entertaining take, not an invitation for negativity. My actual personality is much more soft spoken and kind I promise! I’m not as intense as this courtroom style argument might make me seem!

Thanks for reading, and for engaging with care. 💌

Let me present Exhibit A: my credentials.

I went to film school and through that I’ve done a lot of wardrobe work. I’ve sat in those early morning classes analysing costume design not as something to wear, but as part of the story. And one of the biggest things my professor ever said, the one that stuck with me, the one I still reference constantly is this:

“Wardrobe isn’t just about style it’s about storytelling. Every piece of clothing a character wears is a reflection of the world they inhabit, their state of mind, their history, and their role in the story. If the costume doesn’t align with the world you’ve built, the illusion shatters. The audience stops believing. And once you lose that sense of believability, you lose the entire emotional investment.”

That’s it. That’s the rule. If your characters don’t look like they belong in their environment, then the whole illusion breaks. The audience doesn’t buy in. The story falls flat.

And Pretty Little Liars? They understood that. They built a hyper stylized, danger filled, overly dramatic suburban fantasy and they dressed it accordingly. Were some of the outfits extra? Absolutely. Were some of them straight up confusing? not always actually. But they were also intentional, and in the context of that twisted little town of Rosewood? They made perfect sense.

It was heightened. It was chaotic. But it was cohesive. And most importantly, it was believable within the world they created.

That’s what people forget when they go back and clown on early 2010s shows. Costume design isn’t just about being “cute” or “on trend.” It’s a time capsule. It tells you who that character is, what they care about, what era they’re living in, and what kind of world the show is asking you to enter.
So when people say, “Oh my god, why would anyone wear that?” I want to say maybe because they would. Because she would. Because the story made space for her to wear it.

Let’s look at Sex and the City. Carrie Bradshaw? Absolute chaos, both personally and sartorially. And yet , her outfits worked. Not because every look was “good,” but because it told us something about her. The styling made sense for the character, the tone, the world. Fast forward to And Just Like That, though? Now it’s just spectacle. The outfits are louder, but the storytelling is quieter. The characters don’t feel real anymore. The styling feels like it’s for Instagram, not the script. The balance is gone.

Pretty Little Liars, at its best, never lost that balance. It knew what it was: a heightened teen thriller with big secrets and bigger heels. It gave us mall glam, Tumblr core, Betsey Johnson energy, chaotic, all in one messy, dramatic, wonderful package. No, it didn’t hit 100% of the time, and yes, it started to unravel in those later seasons. But in its golden era? It got it so right.

What Even Is The ‘Show Pretty Little Liars’?

Let’s back it up for a second, because before we even talk about the outfits, we need to talk about what Pretty Little Liars actually was. At its core, this show was a teen mystery thriller with a heavy dose of soapy drama. It was stylish, suspenseful, slightly unhinged, and deeply addictive. You had four (later five) girls navigating high school, relationships, trauma, secrets, and oh…being stalked by a mysterious anonymous tormentor who somehow knew everything…

It was messy in the best way.

Each character had their own distinct style, Spencer’s preppy academic chic, Hanna’s trend chasing glam, Aria’s artsy eclectic chaos, and Emily’s sporty laid back vibe. These weren’t just outfits, they were personality traits. The wardrobe department wasn’t just trying to make the girls look cute. They were trying to say something about who these girls were, what they were going through, and what kind of world they lived in. Which they don’t get enough praise for.

LEFT TO RIGHT: Hannah, Spencer, Alison, Aria & Emily.

Exhibit B: The Fashion Climate of the Early 2010s

Your Honor, esteemed members of the jury, before we even begin to dissect the wardrobe choices made on Pretty Little Liars, we must first consider the fashion landscape these choices were made within.

The early 2010s weren’t just a quirky footnote in the timeline of style, they were a full blown aesthetic movement. And if you weren’t there, or if your memory has been clouded by revisionist TikToks and ironic Pinterest boards, allow me to reintroduce you to the scene of the crime:

We are talking about an era ruled by two opposing, yet equally influential fashion forces: Twee and Indie Sleaze.

Subsection A: Twee—The Polished Dreamer

Twee was the darling of the moment. A mix of retro whimsy and curated innocence. Its fingerprints were everywhere, in fashion blogs, in Tumblr moodboards, in Urban Outfitters fitting rooms across the country.

Icons of this movement? Zooey Deschanel, Alexa Chung, early Taylor Swift, and every fictional character who ever wore a Peter Pan collar while holding a record player. The look was vintage inspired and was all about expressing softness, sweetness, and an air of artsy detachment.

And yes… Aria Montgomery was guilty of embracing this aesthetic to the extreme. Layered skirts, statement accessories, feathers, lace, tights in the middle of summer. But was she dressing badly? Or was she dressing exactly like every art girl Tumblr account in 2011 telling her to?

Members of the jury, I submit that she was, in fact, on trend.

Subsection B: Indie Sleaze—The Chaotic Counterpart

Now, for the prosecution’s second favorite accusation: “The outfits were too messy, too tight, too clubby , too business casual for high school.”

Let me introduce you to Indie Sleaze.

This aesthetic was everywhere from 2009 to 2013, and it thrived on calculated chaos. Think American Apparel ads, smudged eyeliner, flash photography, sequin dresses with combat boots. The look said: I party, but I’m not an airhead. It was the aesthetic of early Tumblr nights out and DIY concert basements.

It was loud. It was grungy. It was hot. And yes, it made its way into Hanna Marin’s closet, often accessorised with a side of teenage rebellion.

She wasn’t breaking fashion rules, she was following the ones that dominated the very platforms that defined teen identity at the time.

Subsection C: The Real Girl Runway

And finally, let’s talk accessibility. This wasn’t a couture moment. This was the rise of mall fashion. Charlotte Russe, Forever 21, Wet Seal, these were the stores shaping trends for the everyday teen. The looks weren’t designed to last. They were designed to be worn on a Friday night and posted on Facebook by Saturday morning.

That is the fashion of Pretty Little Liars. It's not meant to be timeless. It’s meant to be time stamped. Because fashion, when done right in film and television, acts as a time capsule not just of trends, but of emotion, aspiration, and identity.

So when you laugh at an outfit, you’re not just mocking a character. You’re mocking a generation of girls who dressed like that, because that’s what fashion told them to do.

2010 Business Casual Elevated To Looks Today….

Exhibit D: Y’all Are Hypocrites and the Trend Cycle Is Proof

Let’s not sugarcoat it.

The same people who said Pretty Little Liars’ outfits were “the ugliest clothes ever put on television” are now out here in low rise jeans, cropped cardigans, and ankle boots like they didn’t spend a full decade bullying girls who wore that exact combo in 2011.

Let me be clear: you don’t hate 2010s fashion.
You hate that it wasn’t cool when you weren’t ready for it.

And now that trend forecasting accounts on TikTok are spoon feeding you “new” aesthetics and calling them “indie sleaze” or “coastal cowboy” or “dirty heiress,” suddenly it’s okay again?

Let’s Run the Tape: 2010s Fashion Then vs. 2025 Fashion Now

Studded everything? In 2012 it was “Hot Topic galore.” Now it’s “cyber grunge” and you’re layering it with mesh tops like it’s innovative?
Peplum tops? Were once the punchline of every fashion meme. Now you’re paying $300 for them on Net a Porter because The Row called them “architectural silhouettes.”
Worn out denim vests? In 2010, it screamed “confused background actor in a Disney Channel pilot.” Now? You’ll see it on the streets of Copenhagen layered over satin slip dresses like it’s art.
Lace tights under shorts? Hanna Marin wore that and y’all called her unserious. Now you’re DIYing them with ballet flats and ribbon bows, tagging it #whimsycore.
Side parts and wavy unbrushed hair? You laughed at every millennial still holding onto it, but here you are, deep in your Alexa Chung era with intentionally messy hair and smeared eyeliner, calling it “off duty look.”
Layered necklaces, feathers, boho fringe, gladiator sandals, gauzy scarves worn in 80 degree heat? Back. You renamed it “Coachella 2025 ” but babes… it’s 2010 Coachella repackaged with a new font.

Exhibit E: You’re Not A Critic, You’re Just Lazy And You Don’t Know How Film Works

Let’s be brutally honest:
Most of the people calling Pretty Little Liars’ styling “bad” don’t actually know what they’re talking about. They’re not offering critique they’re just repeating TikTok groupthink, regurgitating opinions they heard from someone else who also has no clue how a TV production functions.

Because if you did (even at a surface level) you’d understand that film styling is not some free for all where the costume designer plays Barbie with the cast and calls it a day.

TV is a machine.

A giant, chaotic, highly structured machine where every single department answers to someone else. There are budgets. Approvals. Revisions. Wardrobe continuity spreadsheets. Network feedback and showrunner notes.

Costume design doesn’t happen in a vacuum. It happens in meetings. It happens in rewrites. It happens in “We need a new look by tomorrow, and it has to match episode 5 even though we’re shooting out of order.”

It’s an ecosystem and at the top of that ecosystem? The director. The producer and the showrunner.

Stylists and costume designers may come in with brilliant concepts, moodboards, full lookbooks, but if a producer says no, it’s no. If the director wants the character to look more dramatic, more girly, more dark, less realistic, whatever, then that’s what happens. Because at the end of the day, the job of a costume designer is not just to “make it cute.” It’s to serve the story and do their job.

And if you think Pretty Little Liars didn’t do that? Then I’m sorry, you weren’t watching the show.

You were hate watching the outfits.

Closing Statements

Let me end this with some clarity. It is completely okay to not like certain outfits.
Fashion is subjective. Taste is personal. We’ve all seen looks that made us pause and think, “Really? That’s what they went with?”

Even on Pretty Little Liars, there are fits that I side eye. Trust me, I’m not giving a pass to everything that walked across that Rosewood High hallway.

But to look at this entire show, this massive, genre blending, culture defining, trend setting phenomenon, and reduce it down to “terrible styling”?
To label the whole thing as aesthetically worthless because you didn’t like a patterned legging or an accessorised outfit?

That’s not critique. That’s erasure.

Because when you actually pay attention, really pay attention you’ll see it:
The world they built was beautiful. The tone, the color palettes, the moody shots through suburban windows, the slightly too perfect bedrooms, the over styled school fits that screamed “I’m keeping it together even though someone is trying to kill me.”

The fashion didn’t exist in a vacuum. It was woven into the narrative. It reflected who those girls were, what they were hiding, who they were trying to be. And yes sometimes it was loud, chaotic, impractical… because that’s what teenage identity can be. That’s what teenagedom is.

You want evidence? I dare you to go on TikTok and fall into a Pretty Little Liars edit spiral. Watch those 30 second clips and tell me the world building isn’t there. Tell me the tone isn’t consistent. Tell me the styling doesn’t add to the mood. You won’t. Because it’s all right there; rich, beautiful, specific.

So no, Pretty Little Liars doesnt have terrible fashion.
It had fashion that told a story. Fashion that took risks. Fashion that was unapologetically of its time, just like the show itself.

And it deserves more credit than a lazy one liner on Twitter.

So let’s retire the tired takes, stop blaming the costume department for choices made far above their pay grade, and start recognizing PLL for what it was:
A visual time capsule. A teenage fever dream. And one of the most stylistically memorable shows of its era.

The case?
Closed.