Market Research:
Khaite’s “Scarlet Cardigan”
and “Eda Bra”

I take long baths full of oils and potions every Friday. I’ve binge-watched multiple seasons of television shows in one week. I’ve spent an exuberant amount of money on fresh flowers for each corner of my studio apartment. Forgoed washing my face and showering for days for the sake of doing as little as possible; smoked a joint every night before bed; bought stripper heels to wear while dancing around my house. I’ve left people on read in favor of posting to my Instagram stories; saw my ex-boyfriend and decided not to say hello; started a love affair with mushrooms (yes, that kind); flaked on things I didn’t feel like doing. In the words of Toni Morrision: “She lived out her days exploring her own thoughts and emotions, giving them full reign. Feeling no obligation to please anybody unless the pleasure pleased her.”

The day I received the Khaite cashmere bra and sweater I figured I’d lean into this even more. A sweater that costs more than my rent must feel like magic, right? It was the viral Katie Holmes photo, in which she wore the matching set, the oversized sweater hanging off her shoulders, with a pair of jeans in the streets of New York City, that first piqued my interest. She told Instyle that she picked the Khaite ensemble because she wanted to feel sexy. In all honesty, the outfit wasn’t necessarily stylish, but something about the way that the sweater and bra looked like they required zero effort was attractive to me. Then, I saw Rihanna wearing the sweater and bra in a video for Fenty Beauty, paired with a stack of gold, pearl, and diamond necklaces. I tweeted about starting a GoFundMe to buy the set.

The first days I wore the cashmere were full of bliss. The sweater was perfectly oversized, tailored as if I'd owned it for years. The bra was soft yet supportive, though not exactly compatible with late summer heat. I was living my own Nancy Meyers-induced dream. On the couch watching Girlfriends, reminded of my love for Joan Clayton’s style. (While she might have been known for her going-out cowl-neck tops, and cargo pants, it was her understated luxury and casual loungewear that I aspired to. Soft duster knits, Free City sweatsuits, Birkenstocks with socks and worn-in Birkin bags.) In bed, underneath my weighted blanket. Out to dinner with a friend, drinking a gin martini, and then later switching to orange wine (because pleasure), with the sweater slouched over my shoulders and a pair of jeans. I posted on my finsta, and my friend commented, “Black Katie Holmes.” Khaite was founded in 2016 by New York-based designer Catherine Holstein, with a focus on luxury materials and staple pieces, steering clear of cliches. Holstein saw a gap in the market for women in need of clothing that wasn’t too “precious,” or too difficult to incorporate into their wardrobes. In Greek, Khaite means: “let your long hair flow; to have ease,” and brings to mind the notion of being carefree, effortless, and white—all elements of the fashion industry that have always been highly visible but only recently addressed. As a Black woman, I’ve considered the complexities of appreciating the quality of clothing even if the aesthetic might not have been designed with me in mind. With my recent interest in investing in clothing that will last, building a capsule wardrobe, I’ve been drawn to brands like The Row, Jil Sander, and Khaite because of their emphasis on the understated. A take on luxury without feeling excessive or being too recognizable, these clothes are a palette cleanser following the logomania trend that never quite fit my personal style.

It was when I first wore my Khaite cashmere sweater and bra in public public (a block party in Brooklyn, my first and only “party” of this lonely year, complete with masks, good music, and social distanced dancing) that my staunch view on guilty pleasures came undone. Party-goers complimented my outfit and I felt embarrassed, but even more self-conscious when people recognized that it’s that sweater. I worried that someone might think I’m rich and have a substantial amount of disposable income, or that I spend my money on frivolous things, like a $500 cashmere bra during a pandemic. Maybe our guilt-ridden sensitivities to the assumptions of others, especially when it comes to money, have nothing to do with us, and everything to do with living in a country where our basic needs aren’t guaranteed to be met. I throw the sweater over a slip dress to grab flowers from my local flower shop, and I feel uncomfortable when a woman asks me where it’s from, telling me, “It just looks expensive.” Shame of my own making, antithetical to my unprescribed pleasure seeking.

I told my therapist earlier this year that I felt bad about finding happiness while the world was in flames. She said: lean into it. I’ve spent the year interrogating my needs and rethinking my values: what is really necessary and what defines success? I hate that I still yearn for things that are moreso status symbols than anything else, the mindset that luxury and inaccessibility has created. But I’m not ignorant to the fact that fashion is an art form. I’m aware that quality materials and ethically made garments often cost more money, and last longer.

As of late, I’ve been finding pleasure elsewhere. A mushroom documentary. Riding my bike for 10 miles. Giving my friends tarot readings. Trying a new hairstyle. Perfectly juicy gossip. I haven’t felt the urge to put on the sweater and bra—they remain on my couch, gracefully draped but also haunting me. A few days ago, I threw the sweater on again, and the intimacy conjured by its lingering scents and warm, weighty cashmere succumbed me. As Ntozke Shange once wrote, “Whatever there is good to get, get it and feel good.” Maybe guilt-free pleasure is less about the things we acquire, and more about the sensuality of it all.

Tahirah Hairston is the fashion and beauty features director at Teen Vogue.