In this week’s issue:

• Touch Grass: The Dupe Complex

• It’s Giving: Real Talk About Fakes

• Still Downloading: 3 Questions with Alyssa Trang, Seoul-Based Product Manager & Global Marketing Queen  

• Bible: Hey Lil Mama

• Bonus Palate Cleanser: Supernumerario Isabelita Virtual 

What to Expect from Babe (the unexpected, obvs)

Every Tuesday, at whatever time the data says is the best time, you’ll find Babe in your inbox. Each issue will look something like the one you’re reading now, only different. To keep things classy and somewhat organized, it will almost always include the following four elements. It will for sure serve.

Disclaimer: I’m all Alice through the Looking Glass when it comes to NFTs and/or most things really—I don’t know shit, but I’m learning.

Last week, Blake Finucane dropped some truth bombs about how we assign value in digital spaces. Her point about digital fashion having the potential to be more accessible, if we "breathe life into that potentiality," has me thinking about one of the many paradoxes we currently live in: as our spaces become more digital, our need for authenticity grows and gets more complex.

Here’s a graph I made with Claude to represent said paradox. It’s based on conjecture and zero actual data.

Before tumbling into the digital realm though, I’ve got a perfect case study happening irl. Last year, TheRealReal—an online marketplace for authenticated luxury goods—opened a "fake store" on Canal Street to showcase confiscated counterfeit bags, supposedly to "start a conversation about what's real and what's fake." (Insert the hardest eye roll emoji ever, because like, Google tells me The RealReal has been involved in “controversies over counterfeit items, authentication practices, and a lawsuit from Chanel.” Cool cool cool.)

As journalist Viv Chen brilliantly points out in this damn good essay (how have I not known about Viv Chen until now?), the only voices missing from The RealReal’s "community conversation" are those of the actual community: Canal Street vendors, neighborhood groups, and immigrant residents displaced by high-fashion gentrification.

This collision of authenticity, value, and who gets to define both isn't just playing out in Chinatown—it's mirrored in our digital spaces. And nobody understands this better than the NFT space. Blake witnessed firsthand how NFTs went "from $1 to millions in the span of a few short years—a shift in how/what people (and brands) value." It's another perfect case study of how digital spaces aren't just copying physical forms of value, but rather creating entirely new ones.

NFTs basically said "What if we made artificial scarcity, but like... on purpose?" And people went wild for it. Not because a JPEG is inherently valuable, but because we collectively decided that being verifiably first or original in a digital space where everything is infinitely copyable was worth something. I mean, dupe culture and NFTs low-key represent two sides of the same digital value coin—one celebrates the perfect copy, the other the provable original, but both rely on community consensus and digital verification to create meaning. Instead of being opposites, they're more like parallel or at least sister expressions of how we create value in digital spaces.

Here’s another semi-baseless chart I made with Claude. Feel free to push back our findings and conclusions. I’m not here to be right, I’m here to think and learn.

What's also really cool is how both these spaces have created their own forms of authenticity through transparency. Dupe hunters build credibility by being openly and expertly derivative—their authenticity comes from their skill at finding and sharing perfect copies. From what I’ve gathered, NFT collectors build credibility through their ability to identify and acquire verifiable originals in a space of infinite reproducibility. In both cases, the community isn't pretending to be something it's not—it's creating new forms of value by being completely transparent about what they're doing.

Speaking of manufacturing authenticity—did you know that Abercrombie & Fitch has the perfect meta product to accompany this convo? It’s a perfume called Authentic Self. (Which the internet tells me is a dupe for Dolce & Gabbana’s Light Blue and that’s funny to me.) The fragrance promises to help you "express your uniqueness boldly" through... checks notes... mass-produced cardamom and geranium notes in a cork-inspired bottle. The master perfumer claims it captures "the luminosity of a summer morning," which is apparently what authenticity smells like when it's being manufactured at scale.

It's like we're all participating in this massive experiment about what "real" even means. (Which, as if it were a static thing, have we ever really known?) And the iterations have ramped the fuck up. Like, they’re approaching warp speed levels in the name of entropy. So much so that the dupe hunter who openly shares their finds is arguably being more authentic than the luxury brand claiming their mass-produced perfume will reveal your true self. The NFT collector paying millions for a digital original is operating in the same value system as the person hunting for the perfect lipstick dupe.

Whether we're talking digital dupes, NFTs, or physical counterfeits, the question isn't just about what's "real"—it's about who gets to decide what's valuable and whose voices matter in that conversation. Authenticity isn't just some abstract concept we're all theorizing about online. It's Canal Street vendors trying to make a living while watching their neighborhood get colonized by corporate performance art about "fake" bags. It's the gap between companies preaching transparency and high art while practicing erasure.

Babe: You've gone from styling Americans at Stitch Fix to launching AI branding tools in Seoul. What's the most surprising parallel between human and artificial taste-making that most people completely miss?

Alyssa: It’s interesting because even at Stitch Fix, we blended AI methodologies with human expertise to style clients. We used machine learning and trained algorithms to analyze a client’s profile and match them with pieces from our inventory. Now, in AI-driven marketing and content creation, I’m essentially doing the same thing—leveraging data to personalize experiences.

What most people don’t realize is that no matter how advanced AI becomes, human input is always needed to refine and “perfect” the model. A surprising parallel I’ve noticed is how both AI and human decision-making rely on memory stacking rather than true "training.”

Take fitness, for example. The most effective way to improve physically is through progressive overload—your body remembers the exertion required for a task, and repetition strengthens that memory, allowing you to build on it. AI functions similarly. When we "train" AI, what we’re really doing is feeding it data so it can reference past inputs and generate tailored outputs. AI isn't "learning" in the way humans do; it’s compiling a memory bank robust enough to mimic human-like decision-making.

Just as fueling your body with the right nutrients impacts performance, AI is only as smart as the data it’s fed. In both fashion and AI branding, the key isn’t just automation—it’s curating and refining inputs to get the best possible outcomes.

Babe: From K-pop's explosive creativity to Seoul's thriving freelance scene, you're living at the intersection of Korea's most fascinating cultural exports. How has building a career in Seoul changed your vision of what's possible in creative work?

Alyssa: Building a career in Seoul has completely reshaped my understanding of creative work—both in its scale and its speed. Korea’s approach to content creation, branding, and innovation is driven by an intense mix of agility, trend sensitivity, and an almost relentless pursuit of excellence. Whether it’s K-pop’s ability to engineer global fandoms or the rise of Korea’s expat freelance and startup culture, creativity here isn’t just about artistry; it’s about strategy, adaptability, and execution at an unmatched pace.

One of the biggest shifts in my perspective has been seeing how creativity is treated as an ecosystem rather than an individual pursuit. In the U.S., creative work often leans into personal expression and originality, whereas in Korea, it’s about collective refinement—iterations, feedback loops, and audience-first thinking. This means that the best creative ideas don’t just emerge; they are meticulously shaped, optimized, and tested in real time. Marketing in Korea is everything when it comes to a product. I’ve seen brands pay for entire crowdfunding campaigns to be created for a product that didn’t even have a working prototype. I’m talking about the entire produced video shoot and everything for a non-working product. Now do I think this is unique to Korea? Of course not. But it does call into question the ethics and trust when it comes to mixing creativity for profit. 

Working in this environment can be cut-throat and not for the faint of heart. It’s shown me that creativity isn’t just about inspiration—it’s about systems, speed, and scalability. It’s also made me realize that the best ideas aren’t always the loudest or the most groundbreaking; they’re the ones that can be executed effectively and resonate deeply with an audience.

Babe: You craft experiences in English, Korean, and Vietnamese across digital and physical spaces. What's something about storytelling that only reveals itself when you're moving between languages and mediums?

Alyssa: Storytelling shifts in fascinating ways when you move between languages and mediums. One of the biggest revelations I’ve had is that a story isn’t just about what is being told—it’s about how it’s received. Language and format don’t just shape delivery; they shape meaning, emotion, and connection in ways that aren’t always obvious until you’re actively navigating between them.

One thing that stands out is how certain words and concepts don’t translate directly across languages. For example, in Korean, the word 정 (jeong) describes a deep, almost unspoken emotional bond between people or places, built over time through shared experiences. There’s no direct English equivalent, and explaining it requires cultural context. Similarly, in Vietnamese, duyên can mean fate, charm, or serendipity depending on how it’s used, carrying layers of meaning beyond a single-word translation.

The same applies to storytelling across mediums. A story told through a digital campaign needs to be immediate and engaging, while a physical space allows for immersion and sensory depth. Whether moving between languages or formats, the key to effective storytelling isn’t just translation—it’s adaptation. You have to understand the culture, emotions, and context behind the words to truly convey their meaning. Ultimately, storytelling is about empathy—not just what people need to hear, but how they need to experience it.

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