“The RealReal and haul should not be in the same sentence,” says Tanya Ravichandran, a creative director and vintage fashion collector. Once, the term ‘haul’ belonged to fast fashion: clothes packed in brown paper Zara bags or bursting Shein packages. On TikTok alone, #haul has over 17.6 million posts, and #Shein has 8 million posts, mostly of people frantically showing the 50 pieces of clothing they got for under $100. Hauls have become a genre – ritualised performances of mass consumption, where, in a frantic manner, dozens of items of clothing can be displayed at once. Where large-scale hauls on YouTube once came after birthdays or holidays, TikTok hauls arrive daily, driven by algorithmic dopamine and the desire for newness. And now, haul culture has infiltrated secondhand spaces.
Platforms like The RealReal, eBay, Depop and Poshmark were designated as solutions to fast fashion’s waste and excess, where clothing is often discarded after being worn only seven to ten times. While Shein boasts cheap but poor-quality clothing, vintage resale platforms seem to provide a haven of high-quality and affordable clothing, not filled with the cheap synthetics of today. Since 2011, The RealReal alone has circulated over 40 million items and brands itself as a “world-changing initiative” in the resale economy. Yet its interface – surveilling “liked” items, flat-rate shipping, filters by brand and decade – lends itself to the same addictive, gamified experience, perhaps even better than any fast fashion platform.
Underneath this new shift lies a contradiction: vintage is sold as sustainable, yet it is now being consumed with the same speed and urgency as fast fashion. Online, secondhand and vintage shopping has become both competitive and performative – a status symbol shaped by algorithms and trending aesthetics. The rush lies not just in what you wear, but how you found it: scoring a “deal,” beating others to it and replying to a compliment with “Thanks, it’s vintage”. “The RealReal made it possible to haul,” says Lizzie Wheeler, a resale expert, consultant and creator of Shit U Should Buy, an Instagram account dedicated to vintage deals. “You can add all of these things to your bag, and you pay shipping once, so it can be a good strategy to overbuy.” Vintage accounts like Wheeler’s share daily deals across platforms – TikTok, Substack, Instagram – and thousands follow along. Missed “graveyard” listings from The RealReal are mourned as intensely as others flaunt designer dupes.
Buying clothes, regardless of origin, has become a spectacle. As such, resale now replicates the fast fashion model of constant newness, perceived deals – like the fact that The RealReal is always 20% off – and a scarcity mindset, used to generate urgency. “You want that one-of-a-kind piece,” Jazmine Brown, a sustainable fashion and lifestyle advocate, says. “It gives you the same kind of high that someone gets from shopping fast fashion.” What was once a slow curation process of sifting through racks and learning garment history is now an algorithmic scramble. “Do you want the piece?” Ravichandran says. “Or did you see it on your TikTok? You saw another girl wear it, and you want the same piece just to wear it once?”
At its core, haul culture is a game of access, validation and scarcity, and resale platforms have made it easier to buy in (no pun intended). Peer-to-peer marketplaces like eBay, Poshmark and Depop removed the friction of the traditional thrift store experience, opening secondhand and vintage fashion to younger consumers, many of whom have founded successful resale businesses both online and offline. “It’s changed how people make a living,” says Wheeler, who also runs Studio Dorothy, a vintage bridal store. Resellers provide value not just through the item itself, but through curation, styling and storytelling – perhaps by describing the significance of the design on the original runway. “It’s a muscle that you might not have, but some people have the touch to curate,” says Brown.
Fast fashion predominantly feeds off of our insecurities, making us feel like we have to buy into something to feel worthy or part of a community. You can overconsume secondhand clothing as well, but with slow fashion, you’re able to find that self-worth in yourself – Jazmine Browne
As resale becomes more competitive, it also becomes more extractive. “It’s incredibly privileged to have the money to go in [to thrift stores] and just completely loot it,” says Ravichandran. And while the thrift store is never empty, scarcity drives attention and attention drives value. In this new wave, vintage is a currency of taste, cultural capital and aesthetic exclusivity. “It’s disappointing when I see an influencer doing fast fashion brand deals, then wears a 1999 Roberto Cavalli dress to an event,” Ravichandran says. “Do you care, or do you just want the shock factor of telling your audience and the exclusivity of the piece?” The tension is not just about consumption, but intentionality. “If you have the privilege of time and money, you should be taking your time: you have no excuse,” Ravichandran adds. And yet, the exact opposite is happening.
The RealReal reported over 433,000 first-time buyers in 2024 alone. ThredUP reports that 88 per cent of secondhand spending happens online. And other platforms, whose end goal is still to make a profit and generate clicks, are also adapting. “A secondhand platform wanted to know the number of link clicks I generate,” Ravichandran says. “That was a little strange, because how can I drive thousands of people to purchase a singular product when there’s only one?” In this way, the hallmarks of fast fashion marketing, including clicks, conversions, affiliate links and discount codes have already embedded themselves into the resale culture. As Ravichandran puts it, “Vintage needs to be gatekept.” Not to hide clothing from the public, but to slow the careless circulation of rare and meaningful garments.
By design, resale platforms promise that buying from them means a cleaner conscience. After all, you’re contributing to saving thousands of metric tons of clothing from landfills. However, sustainability isn’t just about what you buy: it’s about how and why you buy it. Brown emphasises that if slow fashion and sustainable fashion represent an intentional and value–driven mode of dressing, fast fashion reflects capitalistic ideals, driven by profit and disposability. “Fast fashion predominantly feeds off of our insecurities, making us feel like we have to buy into something to feel worthy or part of a community,” she says. “You can overconsume secondhand clothing as well, but with slow fashion you’re able to find that self-worth in yourself.”
Once hailed as a radical alternative to fast fashion, secondhand shopping is now caught in its own contradictions. The resale market is booming – expected to grow four times faster than traditional retail by 2029, driven largely by Gen Z and millennials. And yes, this shift keeps millions of garments in circulation, extends the life cycle of clothing and offers a more conscious choice than Shein’s daily drops or Zara’s weekly trend-chasing turnovers. But, the fast fashion mindset is hard to shake, and even if buying secondhand is always better than buying new, the carbon footprint of logistics, returns and warehousing still exists.
In theory, buying vintage should be slow. Reflective. Personal. A garment with history, selected with intention for the future. If sustainability demands intention and care, then perhaps a reframing of haul is warranted. But in practice, vintage haul culture has become another kind of clout: a race for rare finds and one-of-a-kind deals – a spectacle of digital unboxings and hyperlinked identities. If you’re going to buy a piece, Ravichandran suggests asking: “Why do you want to own this piece?” or, “Why is this piece so special to you?” The problem isn’t with resale platforms or thrift hauls in isolation. It’s with the speed, the scale, the lack of pause. Sustainability isn’t a trend; it’s a mindset. And like any mindset, it can be co-opted, watered down and lost in the scroll.
