Have you heard? Ties are back. At least that’s what fashion media have been breathlessly reporting for the past six months, and some as early as 2022 when Louis Vuitton, brilliantly, sent ties down the runway with leather bombers.
The accessory has seen increased attention this year, buoyed no doubt by the ‘tailored for you’ Met Gala theme, and more academic commentators pointing to everything from – deep breath – 1980s nostalgia, athleisure backlash, revived conservatism and the fetishisation of the office and a return to masculinity as causes behind the effect.
But beyond the runways (Saint Laurent, Willy Chavarria, Sergio Hudson), the street-style spectacle (Australian Fashion Week) and famous acolytes (Ayo Edebiri, Willa Bennett, Emma Corrin and Doechii), is anyone actually wearing them?
I do, and I’ve noticed ties more and more on the streets of Tāmaki Makaurau (and during a recent trip to Pōneke). It’s a case of like recognising like: I reintroduced ties to my wardrobe in 2022, buying two vintage Givenchy silk ties from Tango, and unearthing a knitted Crane Brothers number from my accessories box. The decision was self-referential – I wore our school tie, optional for “seniors”, regularly throughout high school – and they fit with the sloaney, preppy, uniformistic base notes of my style.
The subversive element it posed in an office environment was also appealing. When barely any of the men have ties on, anyone else wearing one feels reactionary in a sense. Call it corporate drag. Officewear iconography has changed; with dress codes relaxing across the board, especially in the famously chill Aotearoa, and the era of a de rigueur suit for white-collar professions decidedly over, ties have lost their context as grim, boring, non-optional workwear.
Fashion is reactionary. An item or modality falling out of convention makes it ripe for reappraisal and appropriation (that’s literally how the trend cycle works and always has), and how interesting that is depends on the symbolism and subtext of a thing.
In no particular order, ties call to mind social hierarchy, conformity and decorum; power, wealth and status; gender norms and class presentation.
It’s why they’ve been a vehicle for satire – the formerly spiky-haired, T-shirted Jeremy Wells put one on in 2003 for his satirical news show Eating Media Lunch, and the Topp Twins wore them as Ken and Ken – as well as rebellion and dissent.
In 2021, Te Pāti Māori co-leader Rawiri Waititi was kicked out of Parliament because he was wearing taonga around his neck instead of a tie, which he described as “a colonial noose” afterwards. “I will wear a tie when I want to wear a tie,” he told media. “But I will not be forced to wear it.”
Now that ties are, more or less, a choice, we see them less frequently. You’ll spot the occasional one in the CBD (usually on Auckland’s Shortland Street, outside the court buildings around the country, or rushing about on Lambton Quay) and at formal events like weddings and funerals – all traditional territory.
But they’re popping up in unexpected places too. I’ve been seeing them on teenagers slouching around town, worn with vintage suits and avant-garde ensembles. They were on the runway at Te Wiki Āhua o Aotearoa (Lucas van Schaardenburg, Siriene Yotwong) and on many attendees.
It’s safe to say they’re in the zeitgeist, and a vanguard of cool young Aucklanders are finding a sense of fun and self-expression in the things.
The first time I saw Levi Tan he was wearing a tie printed with a chicken. It was 2023 and he was standing outside a gallery on Lorne Street. I’m not the only one to have my head turned.
“It makes people really happy when they see my chicken tie. It’s a conversation starter. It’s so fun and silly,” he explains, and it’s the one he still loves the most. “I was lucky enough to score that silk tie from my local op shop. All my ties are second-hand.”
Ties form a regular part of the stylist's wardrobe rotation – they’ve become something of a signature in fact – with Levi wearing them most of the time, even when working on shoots. “For me, a tie is my uniform. I love formal wear and always find a way to include it in my style,” he says. “Sometimes, when I need to make quick decisions about my outfit choices, a tie and button-up are my go-to, and they make me feel like myself, every single time.”
It’s not all orthodoxy though. Not content with traditional knots, Levi is inventive with what it means to wear a tie, sometimes folding them into flower shapes or as a headpiece. “Ties make my inner child happy,” Levi explains, and the fixation started when he was small.
“When I was younger, growing up in Cambodia, I used to fantasise about formal wear. It is also part of the culture as well, as formal wear is indicated for formal occasions/office attire and important things. Around 13-years-old, I got my first tailored waistcoat and bow tie for my brother's wedding and I was so happy. I think that's when my obsession started.”
Today, putting on a tie reinforces Levi’s sense of self and confidence. “It makes me feel so complete,” he explains. “I feel power within myself. It is almost a strong character I put on. It’s a form of self-respect to take time to dress myself, as wearing a tie involves folding and knotting to achieve a certain energy.”
As a long-time tie lover, he’s glad to see the accessory evolving and finding a new audience. “Ties used to be so formal and only worn for special occasions. Today it’s an expression of love and passion for individuality. Have fun, dress up, wear a tie, wear silly ties, be you and fabulous.”
Photographer Synthia Bahati often wears them too, over a collared shirt with a vest or a zip-up hoodie, or with a blazer and baggy jeans or jorts. “I wear a tie because it looks good. I feel like they were once seen as a thing for ‘men’, but I like that that perception has changed, and it doesn't matter who you are.” Putting one on makes her feel suave.
Most people she encounters understand the look. “There have been people who don't get it and have made comments, but it doesn't faze me too much. Sometimes people take a while to warm up to something different,” she explains, and there can be meaningful dialogue out of an interaction. “It's cool because it can spark conversation around who should and shouldn't be wearing what, and why we care. It can for sure challenge your beliefs in the way ‘things should be’, but that's not my intention. I am aware though, it can be a statement to some people and I’m not shy to wear a tie.”
Her brother, Frandson Bahati, makes ties for his fashion label Nineteen99. “I think that's actually what got me more into wearing them,” Synthia says. There’s a sense of family behind her look, influenced also by her uncle, who “has that Congolese La Sape swagger”, and sister Sonielle, who makes her want to wear them more.
“Peter Wing was also one of the first people I saw wearing ties on the regular around Tāmaki,” she says. “They really made that a Peter signature.”
Multidisciplinary artist Peter puts a tie on (nearly) every single day. “I kid you not,” they say. “At times I go without it for maybe a day or two and immediately feel like something is missing.”
Peter’s appreciation has come with adulthood. “For as long as I can remember growing up, ties were associated with going to church and wearing it as part of our Sunday best or part of school uniform as a child. Having to associate ties with two settings, I didn’t have as much interest in them as I do now.”
Repositioning ties outside these settings can be subversive, though it always depends on context. Peter says that ties are often associated with authority or corporate style, but in different hands can make a political statement or express individuality.
“As we've seen in the past and in present times, ties can go beyond an accessory for button-ups with the experimentation of it being used in unconventional ways.”
Can ties play a role in exploring gender expression through clothing? “Depending on the type of person you are and what suits you, yes,” they agree. “It's certainly one way to show one's individuality and personality, or defy the status quo.”
Peter steers clear of plain ties, preferring bright colours or zany patterns – often adorned with badges, pins and dollar-store pearls, “making it something that is uniquely mine” – most of which are bought from Hospice and Salvation Army shops. “They are the cheapest and most affordable,” Peter advises.
“If I am forking out more than that, then it has to be a one-of-a-kind screen-printed tie from the creative genius that is Nineteen99.” Another Frandson fan, Peter says those ties are prized possessions and always elicit endless compliments and praise.
With ties part of the creative zeitgeist, Peter’s glad to see others rediscovering and reinterpreting the accessory. “In 2025 we are seeing ties come into more casualness in fashion and streetwear, and I'm living for that at the moment. It’s a unique accessory that we could all use in our wardrobe, and not just for formal settings. A way of literally standing on business without doing too much.”
Feeling brave? If you’ve been contemplating giving a tie a try, before you go and learn to do a half Windsor, as with anything, intent and context are the key to nailing the landing. Lest you look like a trend hopper, consider what you’re referencing, how a tie sits within your own personal style codes and where it lands on the spectrum of authenticity and irony (both are fine).
Fabric is everything – too thick or stiff and you’ll fall prey to Christopher Luxon's tie problem – and many beautiful, designer silk ties can be found secondhand (Tango in Parnell is great for this).
I like abstract prints (the kind a graphic designer who liked Philippe Starck stuff would’ve worn in the early 1990s) or the classics: stripes, paisley, polka dots. Locally, you can’t go past something from Parisian, who stock many local retailers, and make their ties in a factory off Pitt Street, tucked behind Karangahape Road, still there and still busy.
Ties to try:
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