There are worse things than being called cute or cutie. Yet I can’t think of many, especially as a 40-something woman on the receiving end of this designation. In fact, I get showered with cute more frequently nowadays than I did when I was actually age appropriate for the compliment. While I know that others deploy it with only the kindest intentions—and I typically offer back a smile—the term has always struck me as ill fitting and slightly infantilizing.
Part of my distaste for the compliment is that it seems so out of alignment with how I see myself and how I strive to present that person to the world. I have a thin physique and small, somewhat-elfin facial features, but when I’m getting dressed in the morning, cute is never the objective. Usually it’s some hybrid of fashionable (a patterned Dries Van Noten blazer or my favorite Studio Nicholson trousers, tailored with a touch of slouch) and functional (Adidas sambas) that’s more in line with the term “creative pragmatist” as coined by Tibi’s Amy Smilovic. Yet cute attaches itself like a prickly little rash; I can’t shake it.
I’m not alone in my discomfort. For some women, the label strikes hard and deep, dredging up buried insecurities around perceived inadequacies. “It feels diminishing,” says the Hudson Valley–based artist Fern Apfel, who is in her 70s and a regular recipient of cute. When it comes to her appearance, Apfel, who dresses in muted colors and ascribes to a mostly minimalist aesthetic, doesn’t aim to look particularly cute, either. And although she also recognizes its well-meaning implications on the surface, she discerns a vexing undercurrent of condescension or dismissal, however subconscious. “It can make one feel less. It can feel as though people see me as less.”
It’s nearly impossible to relate without firsthand experience, and, of course, most adults aren’t cute. According to Webster’s Dictionary, the word itself means “attractive or pretty especially in a childish, youthful, or delicate way.” The definition makes me recall the Renaissance painter Raphael’s Two Cherubs, featuring a pair of pudgy little angels, bored and listless as they gaze up at the heavens.
Sixty-year-old Miki Higasa, who founded the fashion communications agency Kaleidoscope Consulting, has worked with—and wears—some of the fashion industry’s most avant-garde brands, including Ashlyn, Sacai, and Maison Yoshiki. She says she feels younger than her age but doesn’t envision herself as cute. “I find it conflicting,” she explains. “Even though I know that we have various other adjectives to use, it’s become the word of choice. In France, you would never use the word mignonne to anyone but a child.” She adds that charmante would be the better choice for adults.
Other languages might have more nuanced versions of the word, but here in America cute lands as a one-size catchall. For example: Baby chicks are cute. Cupcakes are cute (and mini cupcakes are even cuter). Shirley Temple mocktails are cute. Boyfriends can be cute (if they do sweet things). Even the word cute is cute. The Olsen twins, back when we knew them as child actors playing Michelle Tanner on Full House, were undeniably cute. But current-day Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen, the founders and co–creative directors of The Row? While still petite in stature, they’ve achieved a mythical-like status as titans of sophisticated and supremely confident luxury: emphatically not cute.
In fact, fashion in general is arguably not cute. In my entire decade-plus career, I’ve never seen a single fashion designer’s seasonal mood board adorned with themes of cute. As far as trends go, it doesn’t cycle back into fashion every few years, like prep, grunge, or minimalism, nor is it likely to pick up its own “-core” designation. Has anyone ever heard of a cute supermodel? Or someone topping a best-dressed list for their cute ensembles? Sex sells, glamour reigns, elegance endures, but cute belongs in the kids’ section.
Last fall my hairstylist cut my shoulder-length locks into a short, wispy style that wasn’t like the darling pixie cuts I’d gotten in the past. This particular style felt more sophisticated—and others agreed. When I posted a reveal photo on Instagram, “Gorge!” “Chic!” and “Stunning!” flooded my comments feed. Four decades and one game-changing haircut later, I was finally liberated from cute. I convinced myself that the moniker had been swept along with the rest of my shorn locks from the salon’s floor.
But three days later I wore a flouncy, red gingham Sandy Liang skirt and satin Mary Janes in a pale shade of pink during New York Fashion Week. Liang’s design aesthetic frequently taps into totemic ideas of girlhood and nostalgia, yet her pieces are rarely, if ever, declared cute or even adorable. There’s a sweetness but also a knowing self-awareness to her designs that imbues them with a potent modernity. But when I reposted a street style photo, “cute,” “cuteness,” and “cutie” pelted me from all directions.
The subtext of a compliment is often encouragement to perpetuate whatever prompted the kind words, whether that’s continuing to use a fabulous new skin cream, maintaining a new gym regimen, or wearing a particular pair of jeans more often. But I wanted nothing to do with cuteness. Appearances aside, my inner qualities stray far from that attribute. I can be painfully stubborn and a meticulous perfectionist, and even what I’d consider my most attractive traits don’t embody the kind of fuzzy, adorable qualities that equate to the word. I’m confident in who I am and genuinely like that person, yet this jarring disconnect was like some blacked-out corner of my consciousness. What was I unknowingly and outwardly projecting that others could so readily perceive? Was my innate sense of style actually betraying me?
“Fashion is such a powerful form of self-expression, and many women, myself included, strive to convey a sense of strength, sophistication, or individuality through their style choices,” Hervé Léger creative director Michelle Ochs recently told me. I felt like I was quietly failing. For the first time in my life, I wondered if I needed styling help—an expert’s insight into which pieces I needed to forever purge from my wardrobe and which ones to fill my closet with instead.
Tina Leung, the influencer and Bling Empire star, has invariably struck me as an expert in image control and someone who radiates quiet confidence, regardless of what she’s wearing. I find that deeply inspiring and ultimately part of her allure. When she posted a photo of herself wearing a bubble-gum pink shift minidress that elicited a barrage of “Cutes!” I asked her if she shared a similar aversion to the word. “People call me all sorts of things, including chameleon, and that, style-wise, is what I am most,” she told me. “I love being cute, and I love being everything else. I’m not a this or that, but a this, that, and everything.” I knew an instantaneous psychological shift was unrealistic, but Leung’s words were like a scattering of fairy dust calling my attention to a possible new path I’d never envisioned before: I could be cute, yes, so long as it didn’t preclude me from other traits like chic, classy, feminine, edgy—all the facets I enjoy embodying but wasn’t fully nurturing, given my preoccupation with stamping out cuteness.
It hasn’t been a quick fix, nor an absolute one, but I’m finding myself less rankled by being called cute. It’s not the only compliment others pay me, after all. And besides, whether someone tells me I’m cute out loud or quietly says it to themselves, nothing changes aside from my awareness. Rather than obsess over what others think, I’m trying on a far more fashionable look these days: self-possession.