I still remember my first pair of Margiela Tabis—camel-colored ankle boots with a wooden platform sole featuring the signature split toe, where I immediately wedged a cigarette for an aesthetic photo. I was young, broke, and working my first “real” job, making just over $1,000 a month. The boots retailed for nearly that same amount, and the only way I managed to buy them was because my best friend, newly employed at Farfetch, generously used his 25% employee discount for me. Even with the discount, the boots cost me over half my monthly salary. I wired him the money with a reckless sense of urgency, choosing to ignore the practical voice in my head screaming, You cannot afford this.
Looking back, it was a terrible financial decision. At the time, I couldn’t even justify it as an “investment” because I wore the boots exactly twice. They were perfect, yes, but when an unexpected expense popped up, I resold them on Depop, barely breaking even. The dream dissolved as quickly as it arrived. Today, years later, I own three pairs of Tabi boots, all of which I paid full price for. I can afford these splurges now, and my decisions—while still indulgent—are less desperate. But even if I couldn’t afford them, I know I would never buy a dupe.
My perceived lack of financial literacy ties into a debate I recently stumbled upon online: Fashion Nova, the fast fashion giant, had just launched a $20 dupe of Margiela’s iconic Tabi ballerina flats. The design—a plasticky imitation—sparked a heated discussion on X. The online discourse produced one comment that caught my attention: “Poor people deserve Tabis too.” It’s a sentiment that, at first glance, feels empathetic, even righteous. For a second, I almost understood why the infamous “Tabi Swindler” stole his Tinder date’s Tabi-toed Mary Janes and regifted them to his girlfriend who, none the wiser, proudly wore them the very next day.
— alexza (@sloungerie) December 9, 2024
Perhaps my own relentless need to own a pair of expensive Tabis was subconsciously influenced by my childhood in Algeria, where, for a time, my parents couldn’t even afford to buy shoes for me and my siblings. Owning something as luxurious as Tabis felt like rewriting a narrative of scarcity–it was a personal triumph, a symbol of how far I’d come. Why shouldn’t everyone have access to the transformative power of fashion? Why shouldn’t people of all income levels be able to wear something that makes them feel seen, admired, validated?
But fashion’s relationship with accessibility is far more complicated than a pair of stolen, or hard-earned, Tabis. Beneath the surface of this argument lies a complex web of exploitation, environmental destruction, and our warped understanding of luxury and consumption.
The thing is, you don’t need Margiela’s name to wear Tabi shoes. The original Tabi design has roots in Japan, where it was a functional, affordable shoe for laborers and artisans. Today, you can still buy authentic jikatabi from Japanese brands for a fraction of the price. Brands like Drogheria Crivellini make elegant, high-quality Tabis that are far more affordable than Margiela’s. Onitsuka Tiger offers split-toes sneakers for streetwear enthusiasts, and Woodchucks—a small family-run business in Japan—handcrafts beautiful Tabis with a personal touch.
Yet, despite these options, many people gravitate toward Margiela dupes. Why? Because the allure of owning something luxurious—even if it’s not the real thing—trumps the authenticity of a thoughtfully made alternative. It’s less about the Tabi as a design and more about what the Margiela name represents: exclusivity, status, and belonging.
Platforms like DHgate take advantage of this mindset, offering cheap imitations of everything from Prada Cleo bags to Balenciaga sneakers and even Hermès Birkins. On the surface, it looks like democratization—luxury for less, accessible to all. But behind every knockoff is an industry built on exploitation, counterfeit culture, and waste.
Fast fashion sites thrive on selling imitations that mimic the aesthetic of luxury brands without any of the quality or craftsmanship that give the original their value–A Birkin, for instance, is meticulously hand-stitched by a single artisan, who is purportedly trained for five-years before they are able to make their first bag. This is the illusion of consumption that style commentator Osama Chabbi describes so succinctly: “Fast fashion is the retail equivalent of social media voyeurism. Just because you can see it, just because it looks like it, doesn’t mean you’re accessing it. It’s an illusion of consumption. You’re consuming what it looks like rather than what it feels like.”
This isn’t a new phenomenon. In Thorstein Veblen’s The Theory of the Leisure Class, the sociologist coined the term “conspicuous consumption” to describe the ways in which people buy goods not for their utility, but for the status they confer. A $20 dupe of a Margiela Tabi isn’t about craftsmanship, cultural resonance, or even comfort—it’s about proximity to an idea of luxury. It’s about signaling belonging to a world that seems otherwise inaccessible. The dupe becomes a stand-in for the real thing, a shortcut to perceived status.
And the problem isn’t just aesthetic. These knockoffs cheapen the original designs while contributing to massive environmental waste and human exploitation. While consumers might see a $20 pair of Tabi-inspired flats as a harmless nod to high fashion, they’re often unaware of the dark underbelly of this economy. These products are churned out in unregulated factories, often under deplorable working conditions. The materials used are subpar and frequently contain toxic chemicals like lead and formaldehyde, which pose risks to both the wearer and the environment.
The environmental costs of this industry are staggering. Let’s start with Fashion Nova itself. According to an investigation by the United States Labor Department, which was reviewed by The New York Times, Fashion Nova clothing was being made in factories that owed hundreds of workers $3.8 million in back wages during investigations that took place between 2016 and 2019. It was claimed that those facilities, which fashion brands use to create their clothing, paid their sewers as little as $2.77 per hour. Those are illegally low wages. The clothes it produces are cheaply made, laced with harmful chemicals like lead, and designed to last about five washes.
Fast fashion and dupe culture together account for 10% of global carbon emissions—more than the aviation and shipping industries combined. A single pair of synthetic knockoff sneakers can take hundreds of years to decompose, and in the process, they release microplastics into our oceans and soil. Meanwhile, the human cost is equally devastating. According to the Clean Clothes Campaign, factory workers in countries like Bangladesh earn as little as $0.30 per hour, far below the living wage required to meet basic needs. Many work in unsafe conditions, a reality made tragically clear by the 2013 Rana Plaza collapse, which killed over 1,100 people.
But beyond the harm to people and the planet, there’s another layer of exploitation at play: the erosion of cultural and artistic value. The Tabi, for instance, isn’t just a luxury item—it’s a reimagining of traditional Japanese footwear that was once worn by laborers. Similarly, Hermès bags are more than just status symbols; they represent meticulous craftsmanship and a legacy of artisanship. By reducing these items to $20 imitations, we strip them of their context, history, and meaning.
And yet, the allure of dupes persists. For many consumers, the promise of owning something like a Tabi boot or a Birkin—even if it’s not the real thing—feels like a way to participate in a world that often feels out of reach. But the question we should be asking is: at what cost? As someone online poignantly put it, “When you justify buying fast fashion with ‘poor people deserve nice things too,’ don’t you also think the poor(er) people being exploited to make your clothes deserve nice things? Or do you not view them as people?”
It’s a haunting question because it forces us to confront the uncomfortable reality of the choices we make. Fashion should be inclusive, but not at the expense of human dignity or the environment.
True democratization, as Chabbi explains, “would mean that anyone can access the privilege to be able to consume the quality, craftsmanship, and storytelling that goes behind owning a pair of Margiela Tabis.” Until we reimagine fashion as something rooted in sustainability, creativity, and ethics, fast fashion and platforms like DHgate will continue to sell illusions rather than substance.
There are better ways to engage with fashion. Vintage and secondhand shopping offer sustainable alternatives that allow consumers to own high-quality pieces without contributing to exploitation. The global secondhand market is expected to double in size by 2027, reaching $350 billion. Platforms like Vestiaire Collective and Grailed make it possible to find preloved luxury items at accessible prices, while local thrift stores and flea markets offer endless opportunities for creative self-expression (I found a vintage Christian Dior corset at a fripe in Tunisia for the equivalent of two American dollars!) Unlike fast fashion, these pieces last. They tell stories.
When I think back to those camel-colored Tabi boots I bought all those years ago, I’m reminded of the desperation I felt to belong. But that wasn’t my first brush with financial recklessness in the name of fashion. In fact, when I was 19, I worked a soul-crushing retail job at the mall, earning minimum wage. The shifts were long, tedious, and physically exhausting, but I had a singular goal: to save enough money to buy a Louis Vuitton Speedy bag.
Everyone around me seemed to have one—except theirs were mostly dupes, picked up from sketchy websites or Chinatown. I could have taken that route, too. It was cheaper, easier, and no one would have known the difference. But for me, buying a dupe would have felt like a betrayal of everything I loved about fashion in the first place. This same mindset guided my decision to buy those Margiela Tabis years later.
If there’s one thing I’ve learned from those long, tedious shifts saving for my Speedy or the overwhelming panic I felt wiring money for my Tabis, it’s that fashion is most meaningful when it’s authentic—whether you’re wearing something high-end or putting together a look with what you already have.
In the end, a $20 dupe isn’t really about the shoe or the bag. It’s about a desire to belong, to participate in a world that often feels out of reach. But shortcuts to luxury come with invisible price tags. The promise of inclusion through fast fashion is a false one—an illusion that exploits the very people it claims to empower. So, do poor people deserve Tabis? Of course they do—but not at the expense of human dignity, the environment, or ethical labor practices.