The fashion industry treats inclusivity like a seasonal accessory—something to be flaunted on runways and promptly discarded when the spotlight shifts. When Pari Passu, the Latin-named renegade of plus-size luxury, announced its shuttering last week, it wasn’t just a brand folding—it was the sound of another door slamming shut on bodies deemed "too much" for high-end design.
Pari Passu’s garments weren’t clothes; they were architectural feats tailored to curves. Their blazers hugged shoulders like whispered secrets, their trousers elongated legs like optical illusions. For five years, they weaponized precision tailoring against an industry that still thinks "extended sizing" means stitching a few extra inches into a straight-size pattern. Their closure isn’t a business failure—it’s a systemic betrayal.
Consider the irony: while fast fashion churns out polyester "inclusive" collections faster than TikTok trends, true innovators like Pari Passu—who treated plus-size bodies as canvases rather than concessions—are left gasping for capital. The math is cruel but clear: when you’re forced to reinvent sizing from the ground up, your margins hemorrhage before the first stitch.
Pari Passu’s real crime? They refused to be a footnote. Their minimalist leather trenches and bias-cut dresses weren’t "plus-size versions"—they were benchmarks. When a buyer slipped into their signature wool coat, they weren’t wearing an "alternative"; they were claiming mainstream luxury’s rightful territory.
Let’s not romanticize this as a noble demise. This is a wake-up call wrapped in raw silk: until the fashion ecosystem stops treating inclusivity as PR strategy and starts funding it like infrastructure, more Pari Passus will fall. The next revolutionary brand won’t die from lack of demand—it’ll suffocate from lack of oxygen in a room designed for smaller lungs.
Their legacy? Proof that dignity shouldn’t be a limited-edition collection. Now the industry must decide: will this be a eulogy or a battle cry?
