90s Fashion: From Grunge to JNCO Jeans

My JNCO Jeans Could Have Hidden a Small Child

I still have my senior year photo somewhere. In it, I'm wearing a Pearl Jam t-shirt that I thought made me look deep, a wallet chain that connected to literally nothing (I didn't own a wallet worth stealing), and jeans so wide at the bottom that you couldn't see my shoes.

Those jeans. I saved up three months of allowance for them. JNCO's - the ones with the ridiculous logo on the back pocket and leg openings you could fit a basketball through. My mom took one look at them and said, "You're not wearing those to church." I wore them everywhere else.

Looking back at photos from 1996, it's genuinely hard to believe we thought that looked good. But we did. We really, really did.

When Seattle Changed Everything

The grunge thing hit my school in about 1992, maybe six months after Nirvana blew up. Suddenly every kid who'd been wearing polo shirts was in flannel. Everyone was in Doc Martens, including people who couldn't afford real Doc Martens and wore knockoffs from Payless (guilty).

My friend Chris had this ritual where he'd buy new jeans and immediately start destroying them. Razor blade to the knees, sandpaper on the thighs. His mom would yell at him about wasting money and he'd say it was fashion. He wasn't wrong.

I grew my hair out that year. Let it hang over my eyes in what I thought was a very Kurt Cobain kind of way. In reality I looked like a sheepdog who'd given up on life. But the girls at school were into it - or at least into the idea of it - so the hair stayed.

The Other Side of the Hallway

While the white kids were busy looking homeless on purpose, the hip hop kids had a completely different thing going. And honestly? Their stuff was way more expensive.

My friend Darnell had a Starter jacket for every team in the NBA. I'm not exaggerating. His closet was like a sports museum. He'd match them with Timberland boots - the tan ones, always unlaced in this specific way that I could never quite replicate when I tried. FUBU shirts. Karl Kani everything.

And the gold chains. Darnell had this one chain that was thick enough to anchor a boat. He'd wear it over his Tommy Hilfiger shirt and look like a million bucks while the rest of us looked like we'd raided a Goodwill.

The Girls Had Their Own Thing

My sister was two years younger, and her room looked like a Claire's had exploded. Butterfly clips everywhere - in her hair, on her backpack, stuck to her mirror. She had this collection of scrunchies in every possible color, organized by shade. Tattoo chokers that looked like they'd strangle her. Platform sneakers that made her three inches taller and twice as likely to fall down stairs.

The body glitter phase was wild. She'd come down for breakfast looking like she'd been attacked by a disco ball. My dad would just stare at her like he was trying to figure out where his daughter had gone.

But you know what? She was doing exactly what we all were - figuring out who she was through what she wore. Trying on identities like outfits. That's what fashion is at that age, even when it's objectively ridiculous.

The Brands We Killed For

Tommy Hilfiger was the king, at least in my school. That red, white, and blue logo everywhere - on shirts, jeans, jackets, probably underwear for all I know. Wearing Tommy meant you had money, or at least wanted people to think you did.

I saved up for one Tommy shirt. One. A rugby with the big logo on the chest. I wore it so much it practically disintegrated. When the collar started to fray, I tried to convince myself it looked grunge.

Abercrombie & Fitch was for the rich kids. The ones who could afford to smell like a cologne factory and pay sixty dollars for a t-shirt with a moose on it. I went in there once and the music was so loud and the employees were so intimidating that I left without buying anything.

Accessories That Made No Sense

I had a wallet chain. No good reason. Just a chain hanging from my belt loop that jangled when I walked and got caught on things constantly. I thought it made me look tough. It made me look like I was worried someone would steal my wallet, which contained maybe four dollars and a library card.

Slap bracelets until the school banned them. Mood rings that my sister swore could predict her emotions ("It's blue, I'm calm!") but were actually just reacting to body temperature. Jelly sandals that made your feet sweat so bad they'd slip out if you walked too fast.

And somewhere in 1997, those ball chain necklaces from Hot Topic. Every single person I knew had one. Usually with a ring or some kind of pendant their girlfriend/boyfriend had given them. Mine had a pewter dragon on it because I was fourteen and thought dragons were cool.

What I Think About Now

My daughter asked me recently why old pictures of me look "so weird." I tried to explain that in 1995, this was peak fashion. She didn't believe me. Why would she?

But here's the thing - every generation looks back at their old photos and cringes. That's the point. Fashion is supposed to be of its moment. We weren't trying to look good by timeless standards; we were trying to fit in with our friends and stand out from our parents and figure out who we were.

And yeah, my JNCO jeans could have hidden a small child. My wallet chain served no purpose. My frosted tips (yes, I had them briefly in 1998, and no, I will not be showing photographic evidence) were objectively terrible.

But man, I felt cool. For one brief, beautiful moment in American history, I felt like I knew exactly who I was supposed to be.

That feeling was worth more than any outfit.