Now, they are nothing more than yet another item duped to oblivion. What was once my dream shoe for years has become yet another TikTok trend plastered across everyone’s feet.
Obviously, Margiela did not invent the tabi. This I know. All credits go to 15th-century Japan. Once again, the Japanese were at the forefront of innovation, practicality, and fashion. What Margiela did was simply turn the split-toe shoe into an icon of high fashion, debuting it on his brand’s runway in ‘88. From that moment, the world was gagged. The floodgates had opened. What was once simple, practical footwear was now an Italian leather slipper with a thousand-dollar price tag.
Of course, I fell for it. Somewhat poetic to have bought my first pair in Tokyo, right?
As previously stated, I wanted a pair for years. Something about that split-toe was so weird yet so cool. Naturally, all the Hollywood it-girls wore them, but there was nobody in my humble city who did. They were niche. It was the kind of shoe you’d see someone wear and think, “Oh, they’re tapped in.” And, of course, at that price point, they were just inaccessible enough to make owning a pair feel like an accomplishment.
Before I ever owned the real deal, I owned a dupe. Of course I did. As a broke college student, I wasn’t about to drop a band on a pair of shoes I had never even tried on before. As tempting as it was, I couldn’t justify it. But even the dupe felt like a placeholder. My bare feet amongst that sweat-producing plastic were not my end goal. I wanted the Margielas.
So when I found myself in Tokyo, the motherland of all things cool, I didn’t need much convincing to pull the trigger. Funny enough, it was surprisingly difficult to find a black Tabi ballet flat. I guess I was too niche for Japan, you could say. Nevertheless, I found them. I was now the proud, yet humble, owner of my dream Margiela Tabi.
For a while, I felt exactly how I thought I would: awesome. When I came back home, I got the expected reaction of, “What the hell are those?” Again, expected. And again: nicheeeee. If you know, you know.
It was a high I rode for a couple of months. Until, of course—boom. A new TikTok trend, now available for only $30 on TikTok Shop. Great. My personal doomsday.
Suddenly, all those years of yearning were now up for discount with overnight shipping.
Needless to say, I’m not mad. Why would I be mad that something wildly inaccessible is now accessible? I am nowhere near wealthy enough to be mad about that. Who am I to “gatekeep” a shoe? A rather popular shoe at that.
What I am interested in is the larger conversation: the death of exclusivity.
There was a time when seeing something you had never seen before meant something. A strange shoe, a weird shirt, an odd hat. It was all part of the intrigue, the mystery, the fun. Fashion was its own language, and being “tapped in” meant knowing what other people didn’t.
As it goes, rising social media usage has made it difficult for anything to be a secret. The second something feels cool, someone finds it, someone else dupes it, and now it’s on your For You page, being sold to you between “GRWM’s” and cat videos.
And maybe that’s the problem. Nothing has time to marinate as a mystery anymore. Mass production has killed organic discovery. Why wonder where something came from when all it takes is one Google search to find it and have it Amazon Prime’d to your door by tomorrow morning?
The Tabi is just one example. The feeling of saving up and finally owning that one weird shoe no one else understands now feels almost impossible to recreate. Not because the shoe changed, but everything else did.
If everyone is “tapped in,”does being tapped in even mean anything anymore?
If everything is “cool,” then nothing is cool.
And maybe this is where I contradict myself. Obviously, I still want people to discover things. I am by no means any sort of fashionista here to dictate what others can and can’t purchase. I just miss when discovering something felt like discovering something.
So, death to the Margiela Tabi? No, no, of course not. I love my pair, I will wear them until my toes poke through, and I will continue to buy more.
But I do think we lost something along the way. We lost the spark. Perhaps the spark is the exclusivity, maybe the mystery, or simply the feeling of stumbling upon something that feels entirely your own. I suppose I yearn for a time when personal taste felt more personal.
Maybe that’s the real tragedy of the Tabi. I guess I’ll have to find something else to gatekeep.
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