All I ever wanted was to be 'cool'

On the nauseating quest for social approval

I’ve always had a particular aversion to the word 'cool'. I find it frustratingly nebulous. It demands reverence yet its meaning is slippery, shifting in definition depending on the one who wields it. And yet, it remains a universal marker of status. A form of social currency. The ultimate stamp of approval.

‘Cool’ is at the centre of every social occasion. Parties seem to exist in constant orbit around the person who exudes inherent coolness. The one who embodies desirability. The one standing effortlessly among the crowd, not needing to announce their presence because the room bends to accommodate them. People adapt themselves, consciously or not, to fit the mould—taming personalities, adjusting appearances, hiding the parts of themselves that don’t quite fit the script. People gravitate toward them, not out of obligation, but out of a quiet, unspoken magnetism. Conversations shift in their direction. Laughter rings louder when they’re nearby. Glances dart their way in search of a subtle validation. They have complete control over the energy of the room, whether they know it or not, steering the dynamics with an invisible hand.

Coolness also permeates everything we do. Conforming to certain invisible rules that govern not just how we look, but how we speak, what we know, and who we keep close. It shapes our interactions, forcing us to constantly evaluate where we stand in the unspoken social hierarchy that coolness asserts.

In fashion, 'cool' has always held a high value. Being deemed 'cool' isn't a matter of individual expression—it’s a form of coded communication, a way to signify alignment with certain cultural undercurrents often defined by those occupying the upper echelons of influence. The pursuit of cool operating like a game of aesthetic approval—one where the rules are constantly shifting. Being deemed cool is a performance; a game of aesthetic approval, recognised by the right people as a statement of taste, power, and social capital.

And coolness transcends clothing. It exists in the spaces we inhabit—both physical and digital. Followers, likes, and retweets act as proxies for social worth. Here, coolness is measured by algorithms, as much as by aesthetic, humour, or intellect. The ‘cool’ influencer isn’t just someone with a trendy wardrobe; they know how to curate a life that others aspire to emulate. 

Here, the relationship between coolness and conformity becomes clear. Despite its historical roots in rebellion and individuality, coolness today is often synonymous with fitting into a specific mould. The rebellious, nonchalant cool of the 1950s—when jazz musicians like Miles Davis defied societal norms with a detached air—has, over time, become something more manufactured. By the 1980s and 1990s, coolness had been reframed through the lens of counterculture. Subcultures such as punk and grunge rejected mainstream ideals in favour of raw, unpolished rebellion. The helm of Vivienne Westwood and Helmut Lang who’s designer aesthetic embraced the unconventional further fuelled this essence of what was cool.

Yet in a twist of irony, even these countercultures became commodified. Their aesthetics rebranded as aspirational style. Today, what was once a symbol of defiance has been absorbed into the mainstream. Fashion, media, and tech industries have all capitalised on coolness, turning it into something that can be bought, sold, and replicated. Brands sell us 'coolness' as much as they sell us their products. Whether it’s the latest streetwear drop or an exclusive concert invitation, coolness creates desire—coolness is a never-ending pursuit of belonging, perfectly just out of reach to keep us engaged. And once this coolness becomes oversaturated—when even a walk around the block starts to feel like a catalogue for the same streetwear collection—it loses its allure, and is swiftly replaced by something else.

But perhaps the most troubling aspect of coolness is its inherent exclusivity. For something to be cool, something else must be uncool. It’s a concept that thrives on comparison, requiring an 'other' to define itself against. It’s exclusionary by nature. In fashion, this can be seen in the narrow definitions of what it means to be stylish or attractive—standards often dictated by size, race, or class. In social settings, coolness reinforces invisible divides, separating those deemed worthy from those who aren’t.

Coolness, then, becomes a tool for control. It dictates who gets to be seen, who gets to be heard, and who gets to influence. It determines which voices matter in a conversation and whose opinions get dismissed. Even in intellectual spaces, there’s a version of cool that favours sharp wit and carefully curated knowledge. Being 'in the know' becomes another form of cool, where cultural capital takes precedence over authenticity.

And yet, we chase it. We shape ourselves—sometimes consciously, sometimes not—to fit into its ever-changing criteria. But is it worth it? If coolness is so subjective, so exclusionary, and so fleeting, why do we invest so much in its pursuit? Perhaps the answer lies in our inherent desire to feel seen and validated in a world that often feels indifferent. Coolness offers a kind of shorthand for social acceptance. It tells us we’ve made it, even if only temporarily.

The problem is, once we start to chase coolness, we lose sight of what’s real. We perform, rather than exist. We curate, rather than create. We shape ourselves to fit an external ideal, rather than embrace our own individuality. And in doing so, we perpetuate the very system that makes us feel inadequate in the first place.

This is why I hate the word ‘cool’.