Do you know what’s nasty? Feathered Saint Laurent heels with a Pucci outfit. At least, that is the verdict delivered by 20-year-old Alabama Barker, daughter of Blink-182 drummer Travis Barker and stepdaughter of Kourtney Kardashian.
Pop-punk by lineage and Kardashian by marriage, she occupies a cultural position where luxury is less aspiration than inheritance.
Over Christmas, Barker uploaded a nine-minute haul video that unfolded as a study in insouciant excess. A Birkin from Kourtney, reportedly worth more than $30,000. A Balenciaga City bag from Kendall Jenner, just under $5,000. Fuzzy Hermès slides from matriarch Kris. Enough Chrome Hearts and Cartier to to rival a boutique counter.
Internet accountants quickly crunched the numbers for the entire haul and arrived somewhere north of $300,000.
The gifts were classified as either “nasty” or “tea”, which is the kind of compressed language only youth can sustain. But the moment that travelled was not the gifts themselves. It was the reference. Unboxing a pair of Saint Laurent heels, Barker remarked, “Nasty. With a Pucci outfit? Nasty,” and moved on to unboxing her next gift.
By the next morning, her comment section had become a forum for genuine inquiry. Comments included “What is poochie?” and “I don’t get it, what is a Pucci outfit?” Somewhere in Florence, an archivist quietly wept.
Those with even a passing familiarity with the house quickly joined in, posting their own videos, holding up everything from jelly slides and sneakers to their own feathered heels and declaring that yes, these too would be nasty with a Pucci outfit.
For the uninitiated: Emilio Pucci, an Italian aristocrat, founded his namesake house in 1947. It became synonymous with kaleidoscopic prints in the 1960s and 70s, worn by women who moved effortlessly between yachts, villas and cocktail hours. Pucci was expressive, confident, and unmistakable. It was colour with conviction.
Its cultural high point predates TikTok. Marilyn Monroe wore it off-duty. Jackie Kennedy wore it on Capri. Sophia Loren and Elizabeth Taylor wore it as second skin. Crepe caftans, jersey sets and chiffon sheaths in electric hues became signatures of a jet-set glamour that felt both relaxed and, dare it be said, nasty.
By the early 2000s, Pucci had found a new audience. Lindsay Lohan in a mini dress. Jennifer Lopez treating Pucci less as a label and more as a lifestyle commitment. The house slipped in and out of fashion’s focus, as heritage brands often do.
More recently, it re-emerged on Hailey Bieber, Bella Hadid and Sofia Richie Grainge, a brief, colourful interruption to quiet luxury’s ongoing reign.
Which brings us back to Alabama Barker, our unlikely oracle. In 2026, Pucci is not about nostalgia or novelty. It is about self-awareness, theatrical confidence, and a clear-eyed understanding of what might be nasty.
