Fast Fashion : affordable? stylish? fat? Pick one.

You're in a clothing store. Overhead lights too bright, air thick with synthetic new-plastic smell and recycled sweat. A sales associate walks past you without seeing you. On the racks: T-shirts stitched with half-baked feminist slogans, pre-ripped jeans priced at $50, and a headless mannequin in a size 2 wearing a pink sweatshirt that says “empowered.”

You check the tag. “Made in Bangladesh.” Contents: polyester, a bit of hope, and a few threads of alienation. You do a loop, try to look normal. You’re searching—for your size, your style, your price. You find nothing. You leave. Later, on the subway, you order three Shein dresses on your phone. They'll arrive in four days. One-third the price. You know it's wrong. You do it anyway. Because you're exhausted. Because you can't afford not to. Because you want to feel cute this weekend. And because no one told you that getting dressed would one day become a moral exam.

So when the French Parliament proudly announces, on June 10, 2025, the world's first anti-ultra-fast-fashion law, you feel... almost relieved. Almost. A per-item tax, a crackdown on ads, no more free returns, new rules to contain the Shein model—finally, a hard line against textile pollution and the silent slavery behind TikTok hauls. And yet… something itches.

Because hidden in that law is a silence. A blur that irritates. A seam badly stitched. They say they’re moralizing the industry—but on what terms? And more importantly: for whom? Who will actually foot the bill for this transition? Who will still have access to affordable clothes? Who gets left in the shame gap between empty racks and economic precarity? And what if this law, instead of fixing fashion, just made its blind spots more official?

In this episode of Cappuccino & Croissant, we're going straight into the fabric of the Republic. We’ll unpick the promises, patch up the realities. Talk about ecology, of course—but also bodies, class, overpriced second-hand racks, misplaced eco-malus fees, and what it really means, in 2025, to get dressed when you're not the ideal customer for sustainable fashion.

Get ready to flip the label. To look behind the stamp that says “eco transition.” And to understand why, in this country—and maybe in yours too—even getting dressed can be a privilege.

A law tailored to whom?

In the dim glow of a Senate chamber that’s seen more bespoke suits than plus-size power suits, a sentence drops like a lead thimble:

"France becomes the first country in the world to regulate ultra-fast fashion."

Polite applause. Press clichés. Hashtag national pride.

On paper, the law passed on June 10th, 2025 is pure PR gold — the kind of legislative fantasy that communications directors dream of. Save the planet. Revive Main Street. Slap a penalty on that neon crop top you panic-bought at 2am between an anti-cellulite ad and a crisis of self-worth.

But as with all things fashion, what matters most is what’s hidden in the seams. Spoiler alert: this bill isn’t made-to-measure for everyone. It’s a political patchwork — cut and stitched by lobbying scalpels, hemmed under pressure, and lined with irritation if you don’t fit the right fiscal silhouette.

So, what exactly is the law targeting? Not fast fashion in general — no, no. It's the ultra-fast kind. Think Shein, Temu, and their 12,000 new items a day. The heavy hitters from China. Not the brands paying their VAT in Manchester or Marseille.

And yes, on the surface, it hits hard: a total ban on ads for these platforms, mandatory environmental labeling, a per-item penalty (€5 starting in 2025, €10 by 2030, capped at 50% of the item's price), no more free returns, and a new import tax on non-EU packages. The message: Shein is no longer welcome — not in our closets, not in our ports.

But here’s the thing: it’s all about calibration. The enforcement decree will define exactly what qualifies as "ultra-fast fashion." And you can already feel where the line will land — just above Zara, H&M, or Kiabi. Coincidence? Of course not.

The Senate made it crystal clear: “This law must not affect traditional entry-level retailers.” Translation: Shein, you're out. H&M, you’re good, sweetie.

Why? Because these brands pay taxes here. Because they keep local storefronts alive. Because Primark hires. Because politically, punishing a European brand that sells “organic cotton” t-shirts at €29 in sizes XS through XS wouldn’t look good on camera.

So yes, the law was tailored, trimmed, and steam-pressed to avoid wrinkling European giants. It claims to regulate an entire industry — but in practice, it creates two categories: the barbarians of Chinese e-commerce and the respectable retailers down the street from your nearest food court.

In couture, there’s a name for this: an “invisible stitch.” A thread only the trained eye can catch. And now, yours is very trained.

The whole thing is wrapped in eco-conscious storytelling: the planet is healing, the children are safe, and we’ll all soon learn how to lovingly darn our socks. Except… the planet still sees just as many clothes being made. They're just coming from elsewhere. And you? You’ll be paying more for your jeans — or reselling your duplicates on Depop again to make rent.

Is it better than nothing? Yes.

Is it the textile revolution they’re marketing it as? Not even close.

Is it a law that punishes Shein while protecting the interests of Zara & co? Absolutely.

So next time you hear someone say, “We’re regulating fast fashion,” ask this instead:

“Fast for whom, and fashion for whom?”

Because in this world, even laws come in standard sizes. And guess what? Yours might not be one of them.

Fast fashion, slow collapse

There’s a phrase politicians love to throw around when they go after Shein: “We’re protecting jobs.” And honestly? You could almost believe it—if there were still jobs to protect.

Back in the '90s, France’s textile industry still employed close to 350,000 people. In 2025, we’re down to around 40,000. What’s left? Threads, a few buttons, and a whole lot of nostalgia. Years of offshoring, automation, and price wars have gutted the entire sector. Today, it’s not production that holds the line, but retail: Kiabi, Zara, Primark. And now, they’re being crushed by digital behemoths with no stores, no staff, and no rent—just apps, warehouses, and algorithm-fed shopping: Shein, Temu, and the rest of the click-to-cart empire.

So this new law? It’s not just about going green. It’s a trade wall. A certified organic cotton fence to stop the last scraps of French textile economy from being packed and shipped out of Guangzhou. And for some, it’s already too late. Jennyfer is gone. Naf Naf is hanging on by a thread. Storefronts keep closing while Shein’s numbers explode. In 2023, Shein accounted for 22% of all packages delivered by the French postal service. That’s not a trend—it’s a takeover.

So yes, the law slaps: a per-item tax (€5, then €10), environmental labels, shipping penalties, no more free returns. The goal? Slow the turbo. Block the dopamine loop of eight dresses and a looming climate collapse for forty euros and two taps.

But here’s the real catch: will it bring anything back?

Spoiler: not really. Not now. Maybe never. France-made, eco-designed fashion is five to ten times more expensive. Production isn’t scaling. And let’s be real—no one’s about to switch overnight to hand-knitted sweaters from Lille just because they’re sustainable.

So what’s going to happen?

Shein will pivot: warehouses in Poland, EU-friendly shipping, and plenty of “not sponsored” influencers doing haul videos in denial. Consumers will migrate back to Zara, H&M, Vinted, maybe Amazon. And low-income shoppers? They’ll adjust. Not out of choice. Out of habit. Out of necessity.

Meanwhile, legacy fast fashion brands are quietly high-fiving themselves. They dodged the guillotine. They can raise prices, play the sustainability card, and parade their “green shift” like it wasn’t just marketing. Kiabi leads the charge: cute and cheap, now with a little leaf on the label—and radio silence on Bangladesh wages.

That’s the paradox.

We say we’re cracking down on fast fashion.

But really, we’re protecting the European version.

We say we’re bringing dignity home.

But we’re not bringing the jobs with it.

And the influencers? They’ll lose the Shein money, sure. But they’ll keep doing Zara hauls. Now with a #JoinLife sticker to keep the illusion intact. As long as it looks ethical, who cares if it is?

We’re propping up a sector that’s flatlining. No transplant, no long-term plan. Just a feel-good band-aid.

Like ironing a patch over ripped jeans… after washing them at 90 degrees.

Spoiler: it won’t hold.

“Just be rich and skinny” — The ethical fashion myth that wasn’t made for you

Picture this: You walk into a clothing store. You wear above a US size 12. Your budget is under 50 euros. You’re just trying to find a black pair of jeans—nothing grandma, nothing potato sack, just... wearable. You walk out with nothing. Except maybe an extra layer of shame. Because in the French fashion reality, if you don’t fit the norm, you’re not a customer. You’re a glitch in the system.

Everyone loves to talk about fast fashion and the planet. But no one talks about the body. Or the wallet. Let alone both at the same time. The dominant narrative tells you to consume less, better, more local, more sustainable. But it forgets something essential: a huge portion of the population can’t afford to consume differently. Not out of choice, but out of constraint. Size constraints. Budget constraints. Location constraints. Availability constraints.

In France, nearly 40% of women wear a size 44 or larger. That’s not a niche—that’s practically the standard. Yet in most fashion chains—even the ones waving eco-credentials—collections stop at size 42. Maybe 44 if you’re lucky. And when they do offer bigger sizes, it’s online only. No trying on. Just guesswork. And even then, the cuts are built for bodies that only exist in Photoshop and wellness ads. In many so-called “ethical” brands, you’re either invisible, or tolerated—if you stay quiet, order online, and don’t expect style.

What makes Shein so powerful isn’t just price. It’s that it listened to something no other brand even noticed: plus-size women wanted clothes. Not boxy, overpriced polka dot pants under flickering strip lights. Not tunics marketed to “flatter curves” by hiding them entirely. But crop tops. Mini skirts. Size 52 ripped jeans. Clothes that say: I’m here. I’m bold. I exist. Even if my budget’s tight. Even if I don’t have the prescribed body.

Yes, it’s fast fashion. Yes, it’s made under shady conditions. Yes, it’s part of a toxic model. But it’s also the only accessible entry point into fashion and self-esteem for thousands of women who’ve never been invited to the party. And this new law? It leaves them with nothing. No alternative. No compensation. Just another silent accusation: “Can’t shop Shein anymore? Should’ve earned more. Should’ve weighed less. Should’ve been someone else.”

They call it an “ecological transition.” But how can you transition from a system you were never part of? When sustainable fashion tells you to buy less but better, it also tells you—without saying it out loud—that you must be able to. Afford €60 for a sweater. Fit into a “generous” size L. Have the bandwidth to shop consciously while your daily life is already a series of compromises.

This isn’t a theory. It’s reality. It’s fitting rooms you walk past because there’s nothing in your size. It’s the sales associate whispering “maybe online?” with that polite wince. It’s trying to pull up pants that won’t make it past your hips. It’s the stares. The humiliation. It’s also the plus-size influencers doing Shein hauls—10 pieces for €80—because literally no one else makes them feel seen.

So what do we do? We ban ads. We slap on taxes. We lecture. But we don’t create anything sustainable to replace what’s lost. We don’t fund inclusive brands. We don’t push “ethical” labels to expand their size ranges. We don’t support thrift shops in offering more than a rack of vintage size 4s. We just cut. We never build.

And as long as that’s the case, Shein will stick around. Because it fills a void. Because it understands, better than any mission-driven start-up, what so many women want: clothes. Just that. To get dressed without shame. Without debt. Like everyone else.

If we want sustainable fashion, it has to be accessible. Accessible financially, yes—but also emotionally, socially, physically. Because you can’t pretend to save the planet while erasing the people already crushed by it.

If ethical fashion wants to be more than a slogan on an organic tote bag, it’s going to have to stop tailoring its clothes, its language, and its ambition to fit only the thin, the normative, and the creditworthy.

Vinted, vintage and the great empty alternative – When secondhand becomes a performance

Over the past few years, France found its new eco-savior in two syllables and an app: secondhand. As if every social and ecological disaster caused by fast fashion could be solved by reselling a Mango dress from 2017 and making €3.50 from your couch. Enter Vinted—the cool, conscious, clutter-clearing hero of modern closets.

But reality, as usual, is more creased than we’d like to admit.

Let’s start with the myth of inclusivity. Selling on Vinted requires clothes in good condition, from trending brands. Buying on Vinted? Well, you better be a size small or medium. In this parallel wardrobe universe, anything above a US size 10 is practically outlawed. Plus-size listings are scarce, overpriced, and usually a graveyard of faded leggings or shapeless tunics from the early 2010s. Looking for a stylish size 20? Good luck, and bring snacks—it’s going to be a long scroll.

Then there’s the pricing. Supposedly budget-friendly, right? Until you add service fees, shipping costs, and stumble across sellers listing secondhand H&M t-shirts for €18 “because it’s sold out.” Apparently, secondhand poverty doesn’t come with a discount. Add in the scams, missing parcels, and battles over a barely-there stain, and what you get isn’t a warm community—it’s a cutthroat marketplace. And a class-coded one at that.

And vintage? Don’t even get started. You’re meant to believe that digging through overpriced thrift stores in the trendy part of town or wearing a scratchy wool blazer from the ‘80s is an act of resistance. But let’s be honest: vintage has gone luxury. Curated. Hyper-marketed. A pair of Levi’s 501 for €80. Y2K jackets hitting €100 on Instagram. “Worn but iconic” boots for €150. Thrift has become boutique. And those sleek "Secondhand Select" stores? They’re not built for the person looking for a Zara alternative. They’re built for the style-literate, moneyed elite who already know the codes.

Meanwhile, while people guilt-trip you for buying new clothes at €12, no one talks about the fact that secondhand is also overheating. People buy to resell. Closets are turned over every six months for “seasonal refreshes.” The volume is still there. The overconsumption is still there. It just smells like patchouli and algorithms now.

Then there’s the subtle pressure. Buying clothes can’t be just... buying clothes anymore. You now need a justification, a narrative, a mission statement. “It’s secondhand.” “It’s from a local maker.” “It’s my aunt’s from the '90s.” As if owning pants required a personal manifesto. But sometimes, you just want a black pair of trousers that fit. Not a thesis.

Yes, secondhand has real ecological value. Yes, it can be part of the solution. But no, it’s not an option built for every size, every style, every budget. And no, it doesn’t detox a system rooted in mass production and compulsive consumption. It’s a fashionable Band-Aid on a burning boat. A way to keep the machine running, while pretending we’ve slowed it down.

Because unless we rethink the base offering—what we produce, for whom, at what cost, and with what assumptions about style, body, and seasonality—these “alternatives” will remain marginal, exclusionary, or just plain inaccessible. And the longer we pretend they’re enough, the more we send the message that if you can’t make it work, it’s on you. You didn’t search hard enough. You didn’t shrink. You didn’t try.

But fashion isn’t an escape room. And getting dressed shouldn’t be a treasure hunt for the well-informed and size-compatible. Clothes should just be there. Available. Affordable. Wearable. And—if we’re being honest—beautiful, too.

Otherwise, we’re not moving past the Shein model. We’re just recycling it. Through a vintage filter. With less glitter, but the same shame.

The closet as a battleground — What this law really says about us

At its core, this law isn’t just about clothes. It’s a social X-ray. A mirror smudged with guilt, greenwashing, economic denial, and a very specific idea of who deserves to be dressed — and how. It doesn’t just regulate what we wear; it quietly regulates who gets to exist in public space, depending on their income, their body, their zip code, their ability to fit into the norm.

It talks about fashion, but touches everything: purchasing power, self-image, class identity, silent exclusion. And it does so with a stitched-up smile.

Because in this debate, no one wants to admit that dressing yourself is a political act. We prefer to pretend it’s a “personal choice,” a “matter of taste,” or, when convenient, a “girly obsession.” But watch how a working-class teenage girl in a neon Shein miniskirt gets judged, while a size-zero Parisian in an “edgy” outfit gets applauded for her style, and the pattern is obvious: clothes, bodies, and social legitimacy are tightly woven — and often suffocating.

That’s the problem. This law, despite its good intentions, careful tweaks, calibrated penalties and made-to-measure exceptions, doesn’t undo what clothing says about us. It doesn’t fix systemic size discrimination. It doesn’t erase the humiliation of never finding anything that fits. It doesn’t close the gap between political speeches and lived realities. It tries to sanitize our wardrobes, but it never addresses what’s truly toxic: the obsession with conformity and the ruthless sorting of bodies through appearance.

What this legislation represents is also a masterclass in soft power. It doesn’t attack the root of the issue — mass production, global textile precarity, the impunity of Western fashion giants — it goes after the most visible symptom. The caricature. The Chinese app flooding the market. It’s easier. More press-friendly. Neater for a white-collar “sobriety plan.”

Meanwhile, it’s always the same people who pay the price. Those without the codes, the time, the options. Those shamed for their consumption when they’ve never had the privilege of choice. And in the middle, a silent army of teenagers, women, low-wage workers, and non-normative bodies who don’t need an “ethical” label. They just need a clean t-shirt. That fits. That doesn’t cost a week’s salary. That doesn’t make them feel ashamed.

Because what this law reveals isn’t that we want a greener future. It’s that we want a more visually acceptable one. A world where poor people consume discreetly, fat bodies dress modestly, margins behave, and the planet gets saved—as long as it stays photogenic. Fashion, in that context, becomes a filter. It doesn’t show who you are. It erases what shouldn’t be seen.

Yes, this law is a step. It sets boundaries. It slows down a monster. But it doesn’t heal the gaze cast on those who live outside the mold. And it certainly doesn’t offer a new path. It closes one door. Without opening the others.

Clothing is the most intimate interface between us and the world. It’s how we say, “I’m here,” “I stand tall,” “I matter.” What this law forgets is that before clothing is a pollutant, it is a refuge. An armor. A right. And for many, that right is hanging by a thread.

And those who’ve already run out of choices? They’re told to patch up what they have. Quietly. Because raising their voice might ruin the perfect eco-family photo.

Conclusion: What you wear, and what you’re made to carry

They say clothes don’t make the person. But in this world, they make everything else. They signal whether you’re acceptable, respectable, desirable. Whether you’re too poor, too loud, too big, too visible. They show if you’ve learned the rules. If you deserve to be heard. If you’re allowed into the room, into the job interview, into the narrative. And if you don’t fit into the right size or the right store—too bad. That’s your problem.

This anti–fast fashion law, however historic it may sound on paper, doesn’t fix the heart of the issue. It targets the shop window, without ever challenging the store. It gives moral credit to a political class that’s never stood in line at a discount chain on the 28th of the month. It protects downtown districts without actually filling them. And it blames Shein without ever asking why Shein had space to fill in the first place.

Because that space is real. It’s in the clothing racks that stop at size 10. In the $90 pants marketed as “investment pieces.” In the vintage apps charging you $15 for a shirt that smells like a basement. In the constant pressure to “be a better consumer,” when you’re just trying to be a consumer at all.

But here’s the truth: you don’t have to apologize for dressing however you can. You don’t have to carry the shame of a broken global system on your shoulders. You don’t have to buy your way back into fashion with guilt, dressed up in greenwashing.

And if we’re serious about changing fashion tomorrow, we’ll need more than a neatly sewn bill. We’ll need to restore the right to style, to dignity, to self-worth—and make them accessible. Not just in speeches. But in sizes. In prices. In stores. In the street. In real life.

Because in the end, what we wear isn’t just fabric. It’s everything we’re made to carry with it.

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Because Cappuccino & Croissant isn’t just a podcast. It’s a state of mind. A place where we unpack trends, news, clichés—and choose, together, to wear something other than what we’ve been assigned.

See you next Tuesday for another shot of voice-over clarity. And until then... keep your head high. Even if your shirt cost $4.99. 💙