Dua Lipa wore a red Polo Ralph Lauren cap, black puffer jacket, Palace joggers, and Balenciaga sneakers in Paris on January 25, 2026.
Some days it’s not about standing out. It’s about slipping through. On January 25, 2026, in Paris, Dua Lipa was spotted walking side by side with Callum Turner, dressed in a look that radiated almost no effort—and somehow more presence because of it.
Her street style here is built from precise decisions that disguise themselves as afterthoughts. First, the hat: a vivid red Polo Ralph Lauren cap , worn low, hair braided at the nape and tucked back like she’s dodging recognition, or not. Layered over a scarf wrap and The North Face 1996 Retro Nuptse Jacket , the whole upper half feels sealed-off, cocooned. Puffy but intentional. Comfort weaponized.
Below, the silhouette slouches. Palace black joggers , loose-fit, subtle logo barely visible on the thigh. That familiar crisp nylon swish. On foot, Balenciaga Runner sneakers , black-on-black with enough bulk to add a little drag to each step. Not clunky. Just planted. Street-tested. City-worn.
There’s no jewelry in sight. Just gloved hands stuffed in jacket pockets. A pace that doesn’t perform. And that’s the thing—it works because it doesn’t try. This isn’t celebrity dressing. This is everyday outfit mode dialed by someone who knows the eye is still watching.
It’s the kind of look that gets copied in grainy paparazzi photos and Tumblr mood boards three months too late.
Sometimes fashion doesn’t announce itself—it just walks past you in the cold, and doesn’t look back.
Bunnie Xo wore a sheer scarlet lace gown with bell sleeves and corset waist to the 68th GRAMMY Awards in Los Angeles on February 1, 2026.
At the 68th GRAMMY Awards on February 1, 2026, Bunnie Xo did what so few dare to do on a red carpet baked in rhinestones and safe sequins—she doubled down, unapologetically, on drama. This is not “just” a gown. This is red lace layered, ruched, flared, and fed through a corset for maximum structure.
The fabric is a bold scarlet lace , sheer throughout, with varying densities. On the arms: sleeves puff into exaggerated bell cuffs , like something borrowed off a Baroque chapel curtain. The bodice leads with a deep V neckline , but it’s the visible corset boning that grabs the whole thing by the waist—tight, vertical, commanding. Below, the skirt fans and clings, with train-like volume dragged behind in double ruffles and asymmetric bunching. It’s loud. And deliberate.
Hair? Pinned into big, brushed waves , shoulder-length and flipped at the ends, with a strong side part. Glam skews filtered—contour, lined lips, blush done with a heavy hand. Nothing subtle. That’s kind of the point.
Accessories were kept behind-the-line. Long nails. A metallic clutch nearly camouflaged by the volume of lace. You saw the gown. You didn’t need extras.
This was not an act of restraint, nor did it want to be. The look was built to swallow up space—and sure enough, it did.
Olivia Rodrigo wore a sheer pink lace dress with rose appliqué and satin pumps to Pitchfork’s Best New Music Party on January 31, 2026.
At Pitchfork’s first-ever Best New Music Party on January 31, 2026, Olivia Rodrigo didn’t just slip into the room—she settled, deep in a brown leather booth, as if she’d been there all night. The look? Soft, borderline mischievous. A gauzy, pink chiffon dress , nearly translucent in places, clinging more than covering. The deep V neckline lets the lace edges skim her collarbones, while the bust sits unlined—deliberately, not carelessly.
Across the stomach, a patch of embroidered roses , bright fuchsia and red, bloom flat against the fabric, like a quiet punchline. Floral without the romance. Skirt goes long— not floor-length, but not flirty-short either —just enough to keep things slow. A pair of muted pink satin heels round it out, matching but not fighting the mood.
Hair’s down, not overly styled. Maybe no product at all. One side falls forward in a polished wave, like a knowing wink tucked behind no earrings. Her finger’s pressed to her lip in that deliberately un-posed pose—with the energy of someone keeping her headline in her back pocket.
There’s nothing loud here. No diamonds. No gloss bomb. Not even shimmer. Just that low-wattage kind of dressing that feels like it belongs in the back booth of a club you can’t quite name.
It’s the kind of look that whispers “don’t look at me”—while making sure every flash does.
