Paris, the supposed epicenter of Western culture, has once again vomited forth another ‘moment’ of high fashion, reminding those of us burdened with a functioning prefrontal cortex that humanity’s ultimate fate is not fire or ice, but expensive absurdity. While the rest of the world grapples with the minor inconveniences of escalating global conflict, the slow-motion collapse of the biosphere, and the general erosion of the middle class, the high priests of the Parisian garment industry have gathered to solve the truly pressing issue: how to make a grown man look like a radioactive sea urchin. Dior’s latest menswear show was, we are told by the breathless sycophants of the fashion press, a ‘turning of the corner.’ If you’ve spent any time observing the fashion world, you know that this ‘corner’ is part of a M.C. Escher staircase that leads nowhere but back to the gift shop.

At the center of this circus is Jonathan Anderson, a man lauded by people who think wearing a lampshade is a personality trait. Anderson is reportedly ‘honing his vision,’ a phrase that in any other industry would imply improvement, but here suggests a sharpening of the tools used to lobotomize the consumer. The setting for this display of decadence was ‘stripped-back,’ which is the architectural equivalent of a shrug. It is a classic move of the haute couture elite: when you have run out of ideas to fill a room, simply declare that the emptiness is intentional. It is the ‘minimalism’ of the intellectually bankrupt, a void masquerading as a statement. But the void was not entirely empty. It was punctuated by the one element designed to ensure the cameras stayed focused on the grift: spiky, neon-yellow wigs.

These wigs were not merely an accessory; we are told they were a ‘signal of intent.’ If that intent was to signal that the wearer has the aesthetic sensibility of a highlighter pen that has suffered a nervous breakdown, then mission accomplished. Neon yellow, a color usually reserved for public utility workers or crime scene tape—both of which would be more interesting to look at than this collection—was used here as a ‘flag planted’ on the runway. It is the ultimate cry for attention from an industry that knows its relevance is waning. In an age where everyone is screaming for a sliver of the digital spotlight, Dior has decided that the best way to stand out is to mimic the plumage of a toxic tropical bird. It is a visual scream, a desperate attempt to feel something—anything—other than the crushing boredom of being a billionaire’s plaything.

The irony of using high-visibility colors for the most disconnected, invisible elite on the planet is almost too delicious to ignore. These are clothes for people who spend their lives being ushered from climate-controlled suites to darkened SUVs, yet they are costumed like they are directing traffic in a fog bank. This is the fundamental hypocrisy of the modern luxury brand: they sell ‘subversion’ to the people who benefit most from the status quo. The Left will undoubtedly see this as some sort of gender-bending, avant-garde liberation, ignoring the fact that it is a product of a multi-billion dollar conglomerate that thrives on the very hierarchies they claim to despise. The Right, meanwhile, will clutch their pearls and point to this as evidence of the ‘fall of the West,’ as if a few ugly wigs could possibly do more damage than their own policy-driven moronism. Both sides, as usual, are missing the point. This isn't a cultural revolution or a civilizational collapse; it's just a sales pitch.

Historically, when empires reach their end-stage, the costumes of the court become increasingly detached from reality. We’ve seen this before in the towering powdered wigs of Versailles and the gold-leafed nonsense of the Romanovs. We are currently in the neon-yellow wig phase of the American-led global order. It is the aesthetic of the heat death of culture. We are no longer creating; we are simply rearranging the debris of the past and spray-painting it a fluorescent color to pretend it’s new. Anderson is not ‘honing’ anything other than the ability to keep the rubes engaged while the ship goes down.

One must almost admire the audacity of the grift. To charge thousands of dollars for garments that make the wearer look like a background character in a low-budget 1980s cyberpunk film takes a level of cynicism that even I find impressive. It is a testament to the power of branding over basic human dignity. People will buy these clothes not because they are beautiful—beauty left the building decades ago—but because they are Dior. They are buying the right to participate in a shared delusion, a collective agreement that this specific brand of ugliness is actually ‘visionary.’

As the models stomped down the stripped-back runway, their heads glowing like radioactive lemons, the audience watched with that particular brand of focused intensity that only people with too much money and not enough to do can manage. They are the true subjects of this satire. They are the ones who will wear these wigs to a gala in the Hamptons and wait for someone to tell them they are brave. But there is no bravery here. There is only the endless, cyclical pursuit of the ‘new,’ which is invariably just the ‘old’ with more neon. We are trapped in a loop of performative vanity, and Dior is more than happy to provide the soundtrack—and the wig—for our collective descent into the void.