Nepo babies come in many shapes, but fashion nepo babies are the worst of all

For the past few years, we as a society have been reconciling with nepo babies.

Short for nepotism baby, the term is largely self-explanatory: nepo babies are individuals whose family connections have afforded them the kind of head start in life, careers and social standing that leaves the rest of us in the dust.

Lila Moss has inherited the looks of her mum, Kate Moss, as well as her designer wardrobe. Credit: Getty Images

Celebrity nepo babies tend to get the most attention. Sometimes, these aspiring actors, musicians and models actually possess a duplicate set of skills to their parents (think preternaturally talented darlings like Sofia Coppola, Laura Dern and Miley Cyrus). Having already won the genetic and social lottery, their innate abilities are further fostered in environments of endless opportunities. Yet for every precocious Coppola, there’s a Brooklyn Beckham or Chet Hanks who never come close to matching their parents’ talent and charisma.

Outside of Hollywood, the most common, and arguably dangerous, subspecies of nepo babies are regular rich kids whose parents’ success guarantees them entry into the top schools, ushers them into plum jobs and grants them memberships of clubs you’ve never heard of while they’re still in utero. You might not recognise their surnames, but they’ll probably be your boss at some point.

Mostly, I have made peace with these injustices. The world is unfair. There will always be people whose parents’ names are blue on Wikipedia. These people’s lives will probably be easier (or at least better financed) than mine. But in saying that, there is one micro-class I can’t overlook: fashion nepo babies.

I’m not talking about Miuccia Prada’s race car driver-turned-fashion executive son. Rather, seemingly regular individuals whose advantages aren’t found in their parents’ bank accounts, address books or résumés – but in their wardrobes.

Regular nepo babies, you can have your professional connections and industry advantages. I’m furious that some people’s mums have a 2005 Chloe Paddington bag. I can’t even imagine the psychological boost that could come from a hand-me-down 1970s Burberry Kensington trench coat. It doesn’t bother me at all that Kaia Gerber inherited her mum Cindy Crawford’s hair, body, face and career. But it made my blood boil when she wore Crawford’s vintage Versace leather dress to her 18th birthday party.

The first fashion nepo baby I ever met was my high school boyfriend. Until encountering his mum, the most stylish adults I knew shopped at Witchery. But suddenly, there she was: a middle-aged woman making her way through the world in Comme des Garcons and a pair of Tabi boots.

As a teenage boy, he wasn’t a direct beneficiary of her treasure trove of post-modern garments. Rather, he displayed subtler signs of advantage. She didn’t lend him those Tabis, but she did donate her understanding of personal style and attention to detail. Despite being imprisoned in a school uniform for most of the week, he somehow figured out exactly how his pants should hit his sneakers and the ideal length of a T-shirt.

Actor Sienna Miller, lauded for her personal style, and her daughter, Marlowe.Credit: Getty Images

It didn’t take me long to realise that having a mum who shopped at stores that handwrote receipts signified more than wealth. Sure, their family had money, but not a shocking amount. What they did have in abundance was respect for lovely things.

His mum’s wardrobe was more the product of a lifetime of good choices than an overflowing bank account. She shopped thoughtfully, took care of her clothes, stored them well and was patient enough to let them hibernate until they came back in style. It’s been years since I saw her son, but I’d bet that over the passing decades, he has accumulated his own archaeological fashion record.

Sadly, I’m not a fashion nepo baby. (Apologies to my mum if you’re reading this. You look great, but Suzanne Grae is not my style.) I do, however, hope to raise one. My daughter is two years old and so far, her fashion tastes skew more monster trucks than Margiela. And while I buy most of her clothes from op shops (knowing they’ll be caked in playdough and muesli bars by midday) her presence has shifted how I think about my own possessions.

I’ve always loved clothes but never really looked after them. Many beautiful, carefully saved-for “investment” pieces fell prey to overfilled wine glasses or cheap deodorant. But since having my daughter I’ve noticed myself carefully folding jumpers, returning shoes to their dust bags and buying wooden hangers. All these items have become artefacts.

When she was born, I bought a vintage Gucci watch and imagined her wearing it. She loves my colourful Shrimps bag (a gift from her dad). I let her play with it but put it away carefully in case she eventually keeps it. No one gave me that Burberry trench coat. But hopefully, she appreciates the vintage one I spent years searching for.

I can’t give her a famous name or a trust fund, but I can give her a lot of beautiful clothes. And for now, she’s given me the best gift of all: an excuse to splurge on investment pieces. At this stage they’re practically our family history.

Wendy Syfret is a freelance writer and author of The Sunny Nihilist: How a meaningless life can make you truly happy.

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