When the HBO show Sex and the City (1998-2004) began airing, it was quickly recognised as being more than just a television show; it was a cultural moment. For many, it redefined what women’s lives, friendships, and ambitions could look like in New York City and beyond. And, perhaps most importantly, it gave fashion a voice, treating clothes not as mere costumes but as extensions of identity, aspiration, and even rebellion. Carrie Bradshaw’s (Sarah Jessica Parker) Manolo Blahnik heels became shorthand for daring indulgence, Samantha Jones’s (Kim Cattrall) power suits for unapologetic confidence. Charlotte York’s (Kristin Davis) ladylike dresses reflected romantic idealism, while Miranda Hobbes’s (Cynthia Nixon) practical workwear symbolised a woman navigating ambition and motherhood.
Fashion in Sex and the City wasn’t just fabric; it was narrative. It invited women everywhere to dream — not only of closets full of couture, but of lives where fashion could serve as freedom, self-expression, and social capital. The show democratised the imagination of luxury by turning it into fantasy. For the price of a cable subscription, viewers could vicariously live through Carrie’s tulle skirts, Fendi baguettes, and Dior newspaper dress. That fantasy made us believe fashion could be our passport into a bigger, more glamorous life. But looking back from today, that dream feels more complicated — in a time when sustainability, inclusivity, and shifting gender politics shape how we think about clothes.
But then came the sequel, And Just Like That (2021-2025), with its third season wrapping up recently. And here, the fashion story shifts. While the costumes are still striking — Carrie in Valentino, Charlotte in Oscar de la Renta, Miranda embracing a more fluid style — the emphasis is no longer on aspiration alone. Instead, it is on interrogation. And Just Like That asks: What does fashion mean in a world where inclusion, sustainability, and shifting gender politics matter just as much as aesthetics?
This evolution is striking because it mirrors our own cultural journey. The 1990s and early 2000s were obsessed with consumerism, status, and excess. Fashion was spectacle, a glittering escape from reality. Today, however, our closets are increasingly burdened with questions: Who made this garment? At what cost to the planet? Does this piece allow me to express my identity beyond the binary? Can style coexist with sustainability?
In And Just Like That, these questions bubble to the surface, even if subtly. Che Diaz (Sara Ramirez), a non-binary stand-up comic and Miranda’s love interest, introduces a wardrobe that challenges the rigid dichotomy of “women’s fashion” versus “men’s fashion.” This alone is a radical departure from the world of Sex and the City, where femininity was performed through heels and handbags. Meanwhile, Charlotte’s daughter Lily experiments with identity, prompting conversations about how Gen Z and Gen Alpha navigate fashion without the rules that governed their parents. Together, these characters expand the canvas of fashion — no longer confined to stilettos and clutches, but encompassing non-binary styles and generational experimentation. Carrie herself trades her sky-high heels for practical footwear in certain episodes — not because she no longer values glamour, but because age and experience demand new definitions of comfort and elegance.
Perhaps the most meaningful shift lies in what fashion no longer hides. In Sex and the City, clothes were a shield — Carrie wore couture even when her bank account was near empty; Miranda suited up to hide vulnerability; Samantha wielded glamour as armour. In And Just Like That, fashion is still powerful, but it is porous. It reveals insecurities, contradictions, and the discomfort of ageing in a culture that worships youth. Carrie’s layered, sometimes eccentric outfits reflect a woman renegotiating her sense of self after loss. Charlotte’s polished looks clash with her messy attempts to be the “perfect” mother in a rapidly changing social landscape. Fashion is no longer fantasy alone; it is friction.
It is this very push-and-pull — fashion as both fantasy and friction — that makes And Just Like That a cultural text worth taking seriously. It doesn’t abandon the joy of dressing up. There are still moments of jaw-dropping couture, gowns that belong on mood boards, and shoes that remind us of Carrie’s undying love for heels. But it tempers this joy with honesty. Just as our wardrobes today oscillate between thrifted finds, rental couture, and recycled fabrics, the show’s styling reflects a world where fashion is not about perfection but about negotiation.
Critics often complain that And Just Like That lacks the sparkle of the original. And perhaps they are right — but that lack of sparkle is in itself, the point. Fashion in 2025 cannot dazzle us in quite the same way as it did in 1998. We are no longer innocent consumers. We know the labour conditions behind fast fashion, the environmental cost of discarded textiles, and the hollowness of endless consumption. The fantasy has changed because we have changed. What we seek now is not just a dream, but a dialogue.
And so, if Sex and the City made us dream through fashion, And Just Like That forces us to rethink what fashion means in an age of inclusivity, sustainability, and shifting gender politics. Together, they form a continuum: One taught us fashion could be joy, and the other reminds us it must also be responsibility. That may be the greatest gift of these shows — proving that fashion, like life, evolves. It doesn’t lose relevance with age or social change; it simply asks harder questions. And in those questions — messy, uncomfortable, and beautiful — fashion remains what it has always been: A mirror to who we are, and who we dare to become.
The writer is assistant professor of design, IILM, Gurgaon
