We all are likely familiar with the saying that imitation is the most sincere form of flattery. Maybe you have been told this, say, by your mother, after feeling frustrated that a girl at school bought the same shirt as you after she saw you wearing it the day before. Or maybe, you heard it after complaining that someone adopted a phrase you commonly say.
This phrase, commonly used to tranquilize the agitation one feels after feeling their novelty has been poached, rarely is successful in its efforts. However, it is important to consider the perspective of the imitator. Just like their “victim,” so to say, they are dissatisfied. But what they are dissatisfied with, is themself.
Since childhood, we have all been angry about “copycats.” I assume at least most of us have been at some point. The few times I remember being called out for “copying” my friends as a child, usually pertaining to an article of clothing, I always responded with an impossibly terrible retort, “no, actually, I already had it, I just hadn’t worn it yet before today.” Not believable.
I wonder, as children, did we even know why we were so upset about being copied? As somewhat of an adult, I still wonder. Where does this need to be novel, or even special, come from?
Why does it feel so good to have something no one else has? If that makes me so cool, why do I desire this feeling of being so different and special? I don’t know, maybe the cultivation of envy has just always been something people have innately desired.
Now, back to being the “poacher.” I would argue that in most cases, this desire to copy comes from a place of innocence. We all have role models or aspirational figures, whether we realize it or not. You see something you like and admire, and you decide you want this good thing for yourself. Wishing yourself well is normal, and honestly, it would be strange if you didn’t.
At a certain point though, in trying to emulate the qualities of someone else, it seems one can easily begin to lose themself. I found myself thinking about this recently, while reading Elena Ferrante’s best-seller, “My Brilliant Friend”.
This book, (part one in her critically acclaimed Neapolitan Novels series) follows the tumultuous friendship of two women, Elena Greco (Lenù) and Raffaella (Lila) Cerullo throughout the 1950s and 60s. Lenù and Lila grow up together in an impoverished area of Naples, Italy, and navigate school, family life, and girlhood.
Most of all, the book emphasizes feelings of envy, competition, and the struggle with personal identity. Lenù had been fascinated by Lila since early elementary school, due to her brilliance inside and outside of school, her rebellious spirit, and her general ferality.
Lenù describes being terrified of Lila, but ultimately more terrified that Lila could leave her behind, leading to the decision to never leave her side.
At first, Lenù used Lila as a role model, channeling her ferocity in difficult situations. But as time went on, she found that she only valued things if it seemed that Lila also liked those same things, “I soon had to admit that what I did by myself couldn’t excite me, only what Lila touched became important.”
Lenù found herself failing in school after Lila didn’t attend middle school, only resuming her passion for reading and languages when Lila started checking out library books.
She later found herself “passionately talking about shoes” with a friend (Lila began working at her father’s shoe repair shop). Lenù realized this, and said, “I was trying to make Lila’s new passion my own”. Although Lenù hadn’t done anything technically wrong, she had begun to lose herself at the expense of her infatuation with Lila.
Her problems didn’t revolve around Lila’s anger with her mimickry — in fact, Lila never expressed any concern about this. The real issue Lenù encounters throughout the novel is her struggle to discover herself as someone different from Lila.
This situation could honestly be seen as idyllic, in comparison to the way the media contorts issues of imitation today. I think first of Gabbriette and Amelia Gray. Gabbriette, who rose to fame as a modern “it girl,” musician, and model, has received a lot of attention due to her unique aesthetic and style.
In an era of pilates princesses, pinterest girls, and Carolyn Bessette copies, Gabbriette stands out like a beautiful baby dracula. Her preferred color, black, stands out against her pale skin and bleached eyebrows, making it difficult not to be mesmerized looking at her.
Then, in comes Amelia Gray. The daughter of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills star Lisa Rinna, Amelia Gray shot to fame in part after fans of Gabbriette noticed their shocking likeness. While Amelia Gray does show a physical similarity to Gabbriette, and at times, an extremely similar manner of dress, it was ultimately the Internet that pitted the two against each other. Gray was flayed by the media, accused of stealing Gabbriette’s beloved novelty.
But, in an act of what I do believe was some true female solidarity and intelligence, Gabbriette and Amelia Gray came together. They embraced their likeness in a 2025 Marc Jacobs campaign, donning identical makeup looks and standing face-to-face before the camera.
In their participation with the campaign — which was to promote the new Mini Dual bag — the two silently killed the Internet cacophony that was tormenting them. Not only was this indubitably a smart business decision, but it sent a message to their audience that I read as “what’s wrong with being alike?”
We live in a time where women are pressured to be so uniquely cool. The “copycat” is always crucified, usually senselessly. I wonder, do people really do this to protect their seemingly unique idols, or is it just another way to accuse a woman of failure and weakness?
I don’t mean to say that we ourselves can’t play a part in all this drama. Every girl or woman I’ve spoken to can seemingly provide me with a time in which they felt bothered by being “copied.” It’s not an abnormal feeling, nor an issue.
However, it seems that at a certain point, this irritation subsides, as we find ourselves and figure out who we truly are. The feeling of anger regarding being copied could possibly be attributed to personal insecurity, maybe the worry that someone could outdo you, or receive even more praise, by wearing or acting in a way you already had been.
I’ve found I care nothing about this anymore, as I’ve grown into myself. I even find myself trying to make sure other women know they can “copy me.” I welcome it. A few days ago, a friend I made in class asked me about a coat I was wearing, or honestly, that was wearing me.
The coat is obscene — an oversized leopard print fleece with offensively red lining. I excitedly told her where I had bought it, and even encouraged her, saying “you should buy it too.”
I went as far as to even lay out a scene, telling her “imagine how funny it would be if we both rolled up to class in this f*ckass coat, it would be perfect for our group presentation.”
I did this to mitigate any fear she might’ve had in her head that I would want her to get a different version of the fleece, one that was like mine, but wasn’t mine. That sure would’ve been stupid too, because I first saw it on New York City influencer Danielle Pheloung’s instagram story and clicked add to cart immediately.
The point is, I felt I needed to go out of my way to reassure her, because of this copycat stigma. I think its important to recognize the ridiculousness of situations like this.
We shouldn’t feel scared to buy something because someone else has it. But, we can also learn from Lenù and Lila. It’s never right to lose your own passions and traits for someone else, no matter how special or wonderful they are.
In college I think we could easily loose ourselves to new and exciting people, who seem to have beautiful clothes, style, and personalities. It seems a little too easy to think “maybe if I look like her I will be happy too.” In a time where everyone wants to reinvent themselves, its important we think about this boundary, allowing ourselves to change but still retain our own personal passions and interests.