The art of looking richer than a nepo baby
The problem with most people who suddenly come into money—whether by inheritance, marriage, shady government deals, or the sort of raffle that gets announced with a giant novelty check—is that they confuse “expensive” with “elegant.” They think the louder the logo, the fatter the wallet. You’ve seen them: head-to-toe in the loudest possible choices, monograms as far as the eye can see, but somehow still looking like a sale rack threw up on them. It’s the sartorial equivalent of karaoke at 2 a.m.—loud, desperate, and clinging to attention.
And here in the Philippines, we have our own brand of style cautionary tales: the nepo babies of ghost flood control projects. Their parents bill the nation for drainage that never got built, then they flood Instagram with their weekend home “content.” Their clothes, like their family projects, are overbuilt in theory, underwhelming in execution, and not exactly waterproof.
Then there’s the other familiar figure: the newly minted socialite. She marries into money and is determined to prove she belongs. She does have style—she chooses well-cut dresses, elegant shoes, the kinds of bags that make society matrons nod in recognition. She hunts down these tiny, impossibly expensive bags, mainly because carrying one is a flex. Each piece is less accessory than announcement, dangling from her arm like a press release about her new net worth. The effect isn’t stylish so much as strategic: a performance designed to signal that she belongs, that she has arrived. But the louder the flex, the less convincing it looks.
Money flows — sometimes into ditches that don’t exist. But taste, when practiced well, is flood-proof.
Old money, meanwhile, is unbothered by such theater, because true wealth doesn’t need exclamation points.
And that’s the real irony: You don’t need stolen billions, phantom floodways, or a closet full of seven-figure handbags to look richer than either the ghost-project nepo baby or the over-accessorized socialite. What you need is taste. And taste, at its heart, is discretion.
Start with fit. Clothes that actually fit—whether tailored or simply chosen well—signal ease. When your trousers don’t drag and your sleeves don’t swallow your hands, you look like you know what you’re doing. Nothing says “borrowed wealth” louder than clothes that look borrowed from someone else.
Then there’s color. Whether you thrive in neutrals or live for bold shades, what matters is coherence. A single strong tone worn with confidence feels deliberate, while a jumble of clashing hues feels like you got dressed in the dark. It’s not about loving or avoiding color—it’s about showing you’re in charge of it, not the other way around.
Grooming is the invisible architecture of elegance. Pressed clothes, neat hair, clean nails—these don’t shout for attention, but they quietly hold everything up. Skip them, and suddenly couture looks like costume. It’s not glamour that makes you look expensive; it’s upkeep.
And then there are manners. All the polish collapses if you’re rude at waitstaff, livestreaming through Mass, or taking over the road with a convoy. Good manners aren’t quaint; they’re the ultimate flex. A simple thank-you, a lowered voice, showing up on time—these are details that make you look like you’ve already arrived, not still scrambling for the invitation.
Equally telling is how you contribute to the conversation. Some people have nothing between the ears and it shows—they reach for price tags when wit runs out, flexing bags and vacations in place of ideas. But elegance isn’t about dominating the room with volume or anecdotes no one asked for; it’s about knowing when to listen, offering something thoughtful when it’s your turn, and knowing when to yield the floor. The loudest presence in the room isn’t always the richest one—often, it’s just the emptiest.
Finally, consider the company you keep. You can be the best-dressed person in the room, but if your arm candy is scandal and your tablemates are trouble, no one will remember your outfit. Discretion means curating your circle as carefully as your closet. Who you stand beside often speaks louder than what you’re wearing.
This is where both the ghost-project heir and the wannabe socialite falter. One floods feeds with gaudy proof of privilege; the other drowns herself in signifiers the old rich wouldn’t touch with a 10-foot pole. Both cling to wealth as performance, while true discretion slips quietly out the back door.
And don’t think leaving off logos saves you. Even if your wardrobe is the quietest couture and your handbags cycle through every limited-edition hue, there’s Google now. People can and will find out how they were bought—and with whose money. The provenance of your lifestyle is no longer invisible; the internet keeps better receipts than your family accountant ever could.
So if you want to look rich—but tasteful? Edit. Choose fit over flash, polish over props, propriety over proof, and company that reflects—not undermines—your character. Above all, choose discretion.
Because money flows, and sometimes it gets diverted into ditches that never existed. But taste—quiet, confident, and intact—cannot be washed away. And unlike ghost flood control projects, people will actually see it.
