It’s no new concept that today’s fashion landscape is a constant battle between over-consumption and sustainable practices - and even those get conflated. When the push to consume, however recycled, vintage or compostable, gets overwhelming, Ann Russell, whose domestic tips have amassed her over 3 million followers, offers a simple answer: an education in darning to make the clothes that you already have, last.
Christmas is often filled with new things, be that a pair of trousers your mum has picked from the wish list she got sent, a new pair of headphones, or simply a fresh cloth laid on the table beneath the turkey. As Ann joins our call against the backdrop of her twinkling Christmas tree, it’s clear we’re not here to compare hauls. ‘TikTok’s Auntie’ sits with her dog (who I’m warned may take off barking at the postman at any time) curled on the sofa behind her, and begins by noting that the choice of clothing she’s made for our chat were possibly not the most sustainable: a green polyester zip-up that she’s found to be simply “more comfortable than wool” on her skin since being diagnosed with cancer a couple of years ago. I mention that taking care of the clothes that you already own, regardless of if they’re natural or ethically made, is often the simplest way of being sustainable, and she agrees.
“It starts with washing: the more you wash clothes, the more mechanical action they get, so the more they break down. Plastics, like [my jumper] take a lot more time to wear down, obviously, because they’re plastic so the fibres aren’t as fragile.” Ann pauses, allowing me time to reflect on the subconscious decisions Im now making to wear my naturally made clothes less. Perhaps, deep down, I know that my pricier linen tops fear the washing machine more than the polyester beer-brand tops I got from my old job ever do - or I simply hadn’t considered that not everything I’ve been told about sustainability in fashion is correct. “There are two ways to look at it,” she continues. “You can buy things like wool and silk and cotton. And if everything is natural, it can be composted eventually. You can make the life of your clothes really long, so long as you have balanced the energy and labour used to produce it by the end of its life.” Like many resourceful people, Ann then goes on to tell me that, at the end of their life, her natural fibre clothes are turned into cleaning rags; she is a cleaner by trade, and favours these over synthetic fabrics that tend to push liquids around instead of absorbing them. Showing even after their intended life, the natural clothes have further purpose.
Historically, clothes weren’t washed as often as they are now. Of course, modern technology has come a long way since we first started conflating dress and fashion – we now have the wonderful tumble dryer instead of the God-given sun – but there are still many lessons we can re-learn from the past. Ann explains that “even until the turn of the last century, second-hand clothing was it. The average person didn’t buy new, and clothes were made to be worn until they were quite literally rags. They simply just covered your body.” Although garments were washed a lot less frequently than ours would be, body odour is not a new development. I’m sure that noses past are glad that GCSE PE right before lunch is a relatively new thing. “If you look at all the beautiful court gowns, the Edwardian stuff with their bustles and frills and crinolines, the rich women that owned them would hardly ever have their clothes washed. If they got dirty, they would be brushed and steamed and stored correctly, and that’s why we have so many of them still in good nick to have a look at. What really helped these women keep their clothes was that they wore good underclothes. Linen underclothes that captured the sweat and grime from their bodies.”
These undergarments were changed and washed regularly, ensuring that the gowns didn’t touch their skin. Expensive dresses and cloaks were removed carefully, then brushed, sometimes sponged clean, then dried and aired. Ann’s family is proof of this as she gestures to a chest off screen. “My grandmother had a crinoline that was her great-grandmother’s. A bright purple silk one, and we stored it in the Ottoman over there. It had never been washed. Things will last if you take care of them, and learn to mend.” For those, like me, without historical fashion artefacts passed down from great-great grandmothers, a crinoline is the underskirt structure that gives gowns you’d see in the Victorian times their bell-like shape.
A few weeks ago, my stomach dropped when I realised that my favourite pair of circa 1990 Stone Island jeans had been worn thin. Ordinarily, I would have thrown any other old pair of jeans in the bin. These, though, had been passed down from a client of my favourite ex-boyfriend’s and so carry a surprising amount of sentimentality. Instead, I picked up my sewing kit and darned the holes closed. “You can send things like that away to get them mended professionally,” Ann says, “but obviously that costs money. A lot of people would think that for the price of repairing them, you may as well get a brand-new pair of jeans from Primark.”
During the Second World War, mending clothes was not only done out of necessity, but was seen as an act of patriotism (I’ve never considered myself particularly patriotic, but at least I now know that if it came to it I am prepared!). The government-backed Make Do and Mend campaigns aimed to reduce clothing consumption and save resources during the war, as clothing coupons and materials were tightly rationed (Imperial War Museums). People were encouraged to make do with what they had in order to ensure as much as possible was readily available for the war efforts. This meant mending a lot of old clothes, even transforming them into new pieces. Some of the wartime ladies suits that we have today were repurposed from men’s suits, for example. After the war, as ready-to-wear was becoming cheaper and more accessible, the need for darning diminished. It has continued on a steady decline as modern technologies allowed for cheaper garment production, to the point that today, repairing older clothes is far less common than replacing them all together.
“It’s fairly easy to learn to darn well,” Ann says, as I admit that my own efforts leave much to the imagination, and I recall that my sewing kit cost barely a fiver and now my FYP is flooded with darning tips I am yet to implement. “I have a little thing called a speed weave, a little darning loom, which can give you the most beautiful, even-woven darns.” She gushes about her mother’s darning skills: “I gave my stepfather a pure cashmere jacket that had moth holes in it. I saw him wearing it the last time I went up [to visit] and you honestly wouldn’t know where the holes were. She’s completely, invisibly, darned the damn thing.
“A lot of the time, it doesn’t need to be that extreme – for example, the jumper that you’re wearing.” Gesturing towards my heavy knit polo neck on-screen, she explains how catching a broken stitch early can prevent unravelling: “you can catch it before unravelling happens and tie a bit of cotton thread into it to prevent it. Likewise with seams, if you spot them early on it can only take a couple of stitches which even a ham-fisted amateur can manage. […] Hell, if you’re really crap, just use a bit of glue! There’s no rule that says if a seam is coming undone that you can’t put a bit of fabric glue in there and glue it shut.”
What Ann is really describing is not a lost skill, but a lost habit. The practices we’ve been talking about, however shoddy my own skills are, are not new, nor are they complex. They are the same methods – checking seams, thinking before washing – that kept clothes in circulation for centuries. In medieval times, garments were repaired because they were expensive and took so long to make. In the Edwardian era, they survived through careful layering, brushing, and storage rather than frequent washing. During the war, mending moved past necessity and resourcefulness.
What has changed since these times is not our ability to repair, but the logic and value we apply to clothing. When garments are produced cheaply and quickly, fixing them can feel impractical. Yet the principle remains the same: extending the life of what already exists reduces the need for more. My jeans were worth saving not because they were vintage or particularly valuable anymore, but because they were good quality and familiar. Mending them forces an experience that replacement never could have.
Seen this way, clothing care is less about nostalgia and more about continuity. The methods Ann describes are not historical curiosities, but practical tools that still work. Mending does not need to be perfect or invisible (although I may be asking Ann’s mother for some tips). It can be uneven stitches, a reinforced seam, or simply washing less often. In a culture built on replacement, choosing care instead of new is not backward-looking, but efficient and forward-thinking.
To find more of Ann’s historical videos and lifestyle tips, go to annrussell03 on TikTok and YouTube.