When the lights came up on Paris Fashion Week's final shows, the buzziest model castings weren't Gen Z fresh faces. They were women who had experience developing their taste on and off the runway.

Stephanie Cavalli, a model in her 50s, opened Matthieu Blazy's Fall 2026 Chanel show in a chic quarter-zip and the handbag everyone will be shopping for by September. A day later, Miu Miu populated its vibe-shift collection with the likes of Gillian Anderson and Chloë Sevigny: one on her first runway ever, the latter returning after a 30-year hiatus. They wrapped up a fashion month where mature models in their 40s, 50s, and beyond ruled the call sheet—proof that designers, even in a male-dominated industry, understand that caring about style doesn't have an age limit.

Across the fashion month circuit, mature models seemed more prevalent than ever before. Casting ranged from designers choosing their favorite muses to selecting women who mirrored their store customers (or those in their front rows). At New York Fashion Week, Carolina Herrera's creative director Wes Gordon tapped a range of established creatives, like photographer Ming Smith and artist Amy Sherald. TWP's show the same week had models in their 20s and 50s wearing cozy shawl coats together; Martha Stewart was the guest of honor, taking it all in. Michael Kors and Calvin Klein also reserved some of their most noteworthy looks on the most experienced models. (See: Christy Turlington, 57, in a dramatic sequin gown celebrating Kors's 45th anniversary.)

Broadening the age range on the runway isn't just a nostalgia play, as seen in Demna's stunt-casting of Mariacarla Boscono (45) and Kate Moss (52) alongside several celebrity-turned-models in his first runway outing for Gucci. It's also a sign that luxury players understand the enduring nature of style—and the growth of their customer base. Women across generations can appreciate a handcrafted leather bag, a semi-sheer dress spangled with crystals, or a high-vamp heel. When it's time for those highly-anticipated It pieces to land on shelves, guess who's established enough in their career (or even comfortably into retirement), to actually shop those five-figure pieces at the Paris stores?

Age-inclusive casting has been done in previous seasons, of course. Batsheva Hay exclusively cast models who were at least in middle-age for her Fall 2024 show. Last September at Miu Miu, Anatomy of a Fall star Sandra Hüller opened the runway with a subversive take on the apron dress. What's different for 2026 is that the memo is widespread. Women of varied ages are wearing just as diverse a range of styles; no one's confined to just one dress trend (or matronly set).

But it seems the impetus for representing all the women who could belong to a designer's girl gang stopped at checking their IDs. As Marie Claire has previously reported, size inclusivity has been on the decline for several seasons—even as curve-enhancing hoop skirts and panniers have become a popular motif. For the past two seasons, according to a Vogue Business study, plus-size models accounted for an abysmal less than one percent of runway slots.

Before official statistics on Fall 2026 castings were released, it was already looking like curves were left out of the conversation again. Ashley Graham may have walked Harris Reed's final Nina Ricci show at London Fashion Week, and Devyn Garcia joined the lineup at Hermès, but those shows were outliers. Sure enough: Vogue Business reported March 23 that plus-size representation didn't rise above a single percentage point in any major market. Only 0.3% of total looks were plus-size, and 2.1% were mid-size.

Seeing designers champion models who've been in the business for decades is, of course, something to celebrate. Here's the thing: The arguments they make in favor of expanding one demographic in their line-ups can apply to so many more. After Chanel's January couture show, where several women in their 40s, 50s, and 60s walked the runway, Matthieu Blazy told The New York Times that mature models "bring a completely different dimension to the clothes." Can't the same be said for everyone beyond the usual mold? When everyone's a potential customer, inclusivity shouldn't be an "either-or." It should be a "yes, and."

Editor's note: This post has been updated with Fall/Winter 2026 runway casting statistics.

Here's an observation from the 2025 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show that would have seemed impossible in 2005: This year's runway cast was more inclusive than the entirety of fashion month.

The annual lingerie spectacle, reintroduced in 2024 after a five-year hiatus (and lots of controversy), used to be known for million-dollar "Fantasy" bras, back-bending faux wings, and women who fit an extremely narrow mold. When the show returned last year, it came with a promise that its "Angels" would look more like the shoppers who buy bras and panties down on earth in its over 1350 stores. The lineup was still otherworldly beautiful, but definitely more diverse.

The Victoria's Secret Fashion Show doubled down on its promise when announcing its 2025 lineup, models ranged from pro-athletes and Olympians to social media stars and working fashion moms—plus, the most curve representation of any runway this year.

Staged in Brooklyn, New York on Wednesday night, the show opened with a nine-months pregnant Jasmine Tookes; continued with modern-day supers Paloma Elsesser and Ashley Graham; and introduced Barbie Ferreira and Precious Lee to the glossy VS runway.

In a surprising development, the 2025 Victoria's Secret Fashion Show stands in stark contrast to the dozens of Spring 2026 runways that just wrapped in New York, London, Milan, and Paris, where representation of mid- and plus-size models hit all-time lows, according to Vogue Business's semi-annual size inclusion study. Only 0.9 percent of 9,038 looks shown were plus-size; two percent were mid-size.

When models like Graham or Elsesser walked for major brands during the official season, they were often the only women above a size 2 on the roster. Those rare castings end up feeling like tokenization—checking a box to have at least someone who's curvy without weaving inclusion into the overall vision of the brand.

At the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show, however, models of varied sizes appeared in every segment. Devyn Garcia, Emeline Hoareau, and Ashlyn Erickson, joined Lee, Ferreira, Graham, and Elsesser on the runway. Size inclusion wasn't the only way the runway cast evolved from its late-1990s origins, either: Models from the original Victoria's Secret lineup returned, well into their 40s and motherhood; Alex Consani, who debuted as one of the brand's first transgender models last year, returned, too. LGBTQ representation also ranged from newcomers Quen Blackwell and Ferreira, to Stella Maxwell and performer Madison Beer.

And while some fashion shows might extend a casting offer to a curvier model, but cover her up in a high-neck trench coat while everyone else wears naked dresses, Victoria's Secret gave everyone the same bombshell treatment, blowouts, glittery lingerie, et al. Everyone who wanted to wear one of creative director Adam Selman's ombré slips or crystalline teddies wore one.

Size diversity had been lacking in the international fashion week circuit, especially as houses toyed with trends like panniers and hoop skirts that exaggerated smaller bodies. In light of last night's show, the discrepancy between the shape of the clothes and the women who predominantly model them is even harder to ignore.

No runway show is ever going to be perfectly representative, but at least one is making a continuous effort and improving each year. If an event like the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show can finally make strides, what's everyone else's excuse? As much as the fashion crowd loves nostalgia, it's not 2005.

TikTok creator Kayla Ryan claimed she found her "cure for getting-ready anxiety" in a July 25 video that's been viewed over 2.5 million times. She's wearing a snug white tank top, wide-leg jeans, and sneakers, with a tangle of gold necklaces layered on top. She calls it the "go-see outfit."

On the social media platform this month, go-see outfits are receiving the same treatment as fisherman sweaters and Pucci prints: They're framed as a "new" discovery, despite their many years of history in the industry. Searches have surged, with a Google Trends report showing queries for "go-see outfit" reaching a record high as of July 28.

Anyone who's followed models' runway comings and goings since the early aughts can tell you: go-see outfits are the simple basics, often a tight T-shirt or cami and low-rise leggings or jeans, that models wear to casting calls for fashion shows and ad campaigns. The phrase received its last pop-culture shoutout during America's Next Top Model's heyday, when Tyra Banks emphasized their importance to impressionable contestants.

Why? Because go-see outfits are designed to highlight a model's physique and their walk while remaining as unobtrusive as possible, the clothes are meant to complement, not distract. As creator @nicsfl1cs put it, "Models show up in the most flattering versions of their real-life looks."

To commenters on videos like Ryan's, the big debate is about the difference between a "go-see outfit" and a plain T-shirt. As an older millennial fashion editor observing this, I'm more concerned about the use of that other descriptive F-word. In my experience, go-see outfits are a relic of a moment in time we should forget—even if we keep wearing those same old pieces.

I was first introduced to the go-see outfit not through social media but by an assignment. It was 2017, during the annual casting for the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show. Models gathered at the lingerie label's Midtown Manhattan office in their skimpiest shorts and tallest heels while photographers captured every move, hoping to secure a spot on the brand's glittering (and, as we now know, back then, highly controversial) runway.

As a junior fashion editor writing for another magazine's website, I was responsible for covering everything: who showed up, who received a callback, and scrutinizing every outfit. Hailey Bieber (née Baldwin) made headlines when she followed the go-see outfit formula but still didn't make it to the runway.

Primarily, the go-see outfit represented what these women would wear to be judged based on their bodies and walks. Year after year, the models who made the cut were always the thinnest. We now understand that this dynamic isn't limited to events like the Victoria's Secret casting call; it also affects the modeling world for on-location ad campaigns and major runway shows. (I recommend reading Cameron Russell's memoir for more insights into her time as a model and the industry's darker sides.)

I'm sure no one on TikTok intended for the go-see outfit discussion to become this intense—and who doesn't look at someone like Emily Ratajkowski or Gigi Hadid and feel inspired by their outfits? But specifically praising the go-see outfit becomes concerning when you think about who is getting hired for modeling jobs because of it. The annual Vogue Business fashion week casting study shows that size-inclusive models appearing in major fashion week markets have decreased over the past three seasons. Combined with advertising for weight-loss drugs and activewear that promotes 'thin is in,' the go-see outfit seems like another sign of an increasingly body-negative cultural climate.

Packaged as a "go-see outfit," basics like clingy tank tops and track shorts or pants feel aspirational mainly because of who's wearing them and where. Outside of this very specific context—and on women not running around a major U.S. style city—these pieces might not communicate the same so-called model energy. It's a phenomenon my colleague, fashion features editor Emma Childs, mentioned on Slack with a single question: "Is this a good outfit, or is she just skinny?"

I can already predict some of the responses to my complaint about this specific fashion discourse. "You're just a triggered millennial!" "You're only complaining because you're too [insert unkind adjective about my appearance here] to dress like this!"

I'll admit that dedicating too much emotional energy to a TikTok trend isn't smart. By the time I click "publish," someone will claim to invent another catchy phrase for an outfit formula we all already know and wear, and the cycle will begin again.

Still, seeing this relic of an earlier, less-woman-friendly fashion era makes me pause. We can reboot the Victoria's Secret Fashion Show to make the casting more inclusive; we can acknowledge when luxury designers create for curves with models to match (and call them out when they don't). And we all, of course, can wear leggings and little camis to our hearts' content, regardless of our size. But if we’re bringing the "go-see" look back, let’s make sure the casting call feels different this time.

Cameron Russell can guess the question readers will have at the end of the memoir chronicling her career in fashion, How to Make Herself Agreeable to Everyone. Why, after everything, is she still modeling?

Across 244 pages, Russell revisits memory after memory that would justify leaving fashion behind and never looking back. She's discovered as a precocious sixteen-year-old with dreams of one day becoming a U.S. president. By her late teens, she's overexposed to the worst of fashion's behind-the-curtain culture. Photographers ogle at her body and make sexually suggestive comments; job after job demands compromises of Russell's dignity and autonomy for the sake of the shot. By her early thirties, Russell is as successful as most models hope to be, with international magazine covers, lucrative designer campaigns, and a growing presence in the world of community organizing and activism.

Still, she feels growing ambivalence toward the industry where she spent the better part of two decades. After giving a TED Talk on her profession that quickly racks up 40 million views and international press, Russell writes that she "doesn't know what to say" about herself without a script.

“This question, [why continue modeling], was at the heart of the book, and it's a question that I'm asked all the time and it's a question, of course, that I ask myself,” Russell tells Marie Claire. “I hope that when people read the book, they almost feel the universality of that question in this moment.”

Writing and continuing to work are two ways of showing up and demanding accountability for herself and for the industry she’s still part of. First, by laying bare the truth of what happened in makeup trailers and photo studios and late-night work dinners in the past; second, by setting higher standards to protect other models (and all disenfranchised people in fashion) in the present.

Russell’s memories are hers, but her story overlaps with decades of models who came before her. The photographers and agents who dehumanize Russell as a teen are a form of fashion history repeating. In her book, she sees her public successes and private horrors reflected in “every model memoir she can find.” 

“In my notes, our stories begin to blur, and I can’t remember which words are mine or hers or someone else’s,” she writes while flipping through titles by Iman and Naomi Campbell, Brooke Shields and Ashely Graham and Janice Dickinson. She counts each time “perfect” appears in narratives across decades and sets. (Dozens, at least.) Consistently, she notes, the best models are the ones who are “up for anything”—a euphemism containing infinitely unpleasant meanings.

The story of transcending these experiences, Russell says, is a journey many women and people are on. "It's so important to like resist exceptionality and say this is a group because actually, that's the project that we have to do for the whole industry, right?"

Some of Russell’s journey involves acknowledging her own complicity in fashion’s exploitative systems as she gets older. “Years pass and each day I become less of a witness and more of an accomplice,” she writes in a later passage. She confronts moments from staying silent on set when non-white models are cut from a cover image, to a day spent photographing 77 cheap, disposable clothes for a massive brand on the same day as the Rana Plaza collapse in Bangladesh, which killed more than 1,100 garment workers.

Unflinching honesty about the moments where Russell didn't speak up or step back are essential to the project. “The book is part of trying to be accountable and serious, and be vulnerable, and take some risks because I can,” she says.

Some readers might pick up the memoir on a hunt for industry gossip; to connect the dots between redacted names and timestamps in Russell’s early narrative, feel momentary outrage at how minors and young women are taken advantage of, and then move on—in the style of the press cycles for the model memoirs she read while researching her own book. (How quickly did the conversation move on from the revelations in the Pretty Baby: Brooke Shields documentary, in 2023? Or those in Emily Ratajkowski's My Body, in 2021?) This approach is missing the point. 

Russell wants readers to interrogate their relationship to fashion as honestly as she has, especially if they’re coming to the book from within the glossy world of runways and magazine shoots. “If you pull back the curtain, this is an industry filled with people who actually could transform it,” she says. "I hope that the book is a call for the people inside our industry to access and to see themselves as very serious and very ambitious about what they can do in this current moment in history."

Modeling as a profession isn’t going anywhere after one more explosive memoir; neither is the multi-billion dollar network, filled with myriad other issues, that modeling is just one facet of.

One book and one person can't reform the industry, but they can maybe make more people pay attention and take action. "We have to take fashion seriously and we have to be ambitious in this space,” Russell says. “What other choices do we have?"