Peer behind the Love Island fashion and the younger generation is much cooler than it seems, says a mature Saskia Murphy

At what point do you accept that you’re no longer part of the youth? Is it that smug sense of satisfaction you get when you wake up before 9am on a Sunday? Is it when you find yourself becoming weirdly particular over what pans you use? What about when you start noticing the emergence of a new generation that you don’t quite understand?

At 28, I first started getting an inkling that I’m maybe not so down with the kids anymore this summer. I went to a music festival where an influx of Gen-Zers flocked to the fields, perhaps for the first time, clad in bralettes, bondage-style fishnet skirts and makeup that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a catwalk.

I even saw a few lads wearing designer lifejackets. No, the music festival did not take place on a dinghy boat in the middle of the Pacific Ocean – it was in a field, with not a trickle of water in sight.

I watched in despair as said young people walked around in their carefully curated outfits with their iPhones in hand, snapchatting every band, every drink, every balloon.

That’s it, I thought. Rome has fallen. Social media has ruined everything. These people are far too self-conscious, far too consumed with image. Freedom and self-expression are over, no one is cool anymore.

But this week, noticing students in Manchester returning to campus, my faith has been restored.

In the shadows of the Love Island-hooked masses, there’s a subculture of young people who are rejecting the contouring, the neon mesh and see-through pencil skirts in favour of random concoctions featuring shapeless, faded garments dug out of charity shops. It’s like a mixture of 1990s grunge and 2019 wokeness, most likely driven by an ethical decision not to contribute to the global crisis of fast fashion, but also indicative of a few individuals who are simply comfortable in their own skin.

I’ll give you some examples. Last week I saw a girl stepping off a bus near Manchester University looking like a big pink bowl of jelly. She was wearing bright pink baggy cargo trousers, a big fluffy pink jumper, pink trainers, and she’d topped the look off with a pink rucksack. She obviously just loves pink, and good for her. She looked ace. I was in awe. Who was this confident fuschia queen gliding through south Manchester without a care in the world?

Elsewhere in the world of thrifty fashion, second-hand shirts are paired with old tracksuit bottoms, and well-worn but functional Doc Martens are purchased for £30 and polished up, ready for another life with their new owner.

Looking around, I just think: you cool young people. I wish I’d had been as cool as you when I was 18. I would have saved myself a fortune in cheaply made Topshop clothes that never looked great and played a part in Sir Philip Green’s empire of doom.

How liberating it is to turn your back on the never-ending cycle of consumerism that tells you no matter what you wear, no matter how much you love the new outfit you just paid £100 for, you always need more. I’m happy to see the next generation leading the way.