If you grew up in China any time between the 1990s and the 2010s, your “sassiest” sartorial memory is likely a “sea of scrambled eggs and tomatoes”–the ubiquitous, formless mass of red, white and blue tracksuits that defined school life. For decades, these school uniforms were a pragmatic, almost anti-aesthetic statement. But as the country changes, so too do its symbols. In this whopper of a Close-Up, Bejing-based reporter Layla Zhang, our newest Temper Tasty, explores the subtle but powerful shift from uniforms designed to hide the individual to those that might, one day, celebrate them.
T-shirts, shorts, hoodies, jackets, and every other garment under the sun… It’s a New York University violet takeover at the uni’s store in the 2020s. Image: Layla Zhang
Walking into the New York University (NYU) bookstore for the first time on August 23, 2021, I was met with a sea of violet.
It was everywhere: on T-shirts and shorts, hoodies and jackets, hats and polo shirts–a celebration of school spirit in a way I had never seen. That evening, I wrote in my diary:
“I had gone in expecting something like ‘school uniforms.’ But this felt entirely different–more like a collection of souvenirs. Even if you just wanted one item of clothing, the choice was overwhelming. Nothing like the uniforms I knew, those symbols of strict uniformity.”
The sight instantly pulled me back to 2004, to my first days as a primary school student at Sanhe No.6 Primary School in Yanjiao, Hebei Province in northern China.
Yanjiao is a town defined by its proximity to Beijing, just across the river. It’s a place known for its strategic location, its dense population and its bustling commerce. Most of my classmates were children of parents who worked in the capital but had settled in this satellite town, unable to afford a home in Beijing itself—a choice that meant enduring a daily two-hour commute for a foothold in the region’s orbit.
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Layering On The Uniform(ity): The 2000s
If you wandered onto a Chinese school campus in the early 2000s, you’d find yourself adrift in a vast, steaming platter of xīhóngshì chǎojīdàn (西红柿炒鸡蛋 or “scrambled eggs stir-fried with tomatoes,” a classic and immensely popular yellow-red Chinese home-cooked dish). This wasn’t a cafeteria special; it was the student body itself, a uniformed sea of red and white, blue and white and yellow and white.
These were the uniforms of our youth. Stitched from tough, no-nonsense polyester and acrylic, they were built to endure everything but vanity. They were cheap, practical and brutally democratic.
“Back then, school uniforms were unisex. The entire school wore identical clothes with absolutely no consideration for fit,” Jiarui, a 28-year-old from Hebei, now an art teacher, tells The China Temper whilst laughing about her middle school (aka junior high school) days. “No matter if you were tall, short, thin or heavy, everyone looked the same in them. If I had my hair cut back then, nobody could tell I was a boy or girl from 15 meters away.”
Let’s be clear: this wasn’t a failure of taste, but a triumph of logistics. The “scrambled egg” aesthetic of early 2000s school uniforms was an inevitable, pragmatic choice.
Two decades into China’s reform and opening-up journey, which officially got underway in 1978, the nation was performing the monumental task of educating its masses. As education became compulsory for a vast wave of new students, all from different socio-economic backgrounds, the uniform had a job to do. It was a manager’s dream–a visual tool to forge a unified identity and hammer home a message of collective solidarity.
The loose cuts ensured they could accommodate teenagers’ rapidly growing bodies, while the sturdy, stain-resistant fabrics were a quiet nod to the economic realities of many working-class families. During this phase, the school badge was typically a simple embroidered logo, discreetly stitched on the left chest.
It was less a symbol of pride and more a discreet label, a final, bureaucratic stamp on a generation dressed for duty.
“I still remember the first version of the uniform at Sanhe Primary School. It was blue, yellow and white, with two blue sections meeting, much like the symbol of Yanjiao Town. There was also a complete town emblem on the right chest, and the school name was written in calligraphy on the back. The design was simple and dignified, showcasing the school’s character while reflecting the town’s connotations at the time,” says the retired former head, surnamed Yang, of the Moral Education Office at Sanhe Primary School.
Red and white–or a steaming platter of scrambled eggs and stir-fried tomatoes. Meet the iconic uniform of Renda Fuzong (人大附中| Réndà Fùzhōng), the affiliated high school of Beijing-based Renmin University of China. Image: Layla Zhang
Specimen: Chinese school sports uniforms, circa 2002. Note the iconic stripes, the bafflingly thick polyester and the unique ability to make even the most athletic kid look vaguely rectangular. A true piece of sartorial history. Image: wildly popular lifestyle bible and e-commerce platform Xiaohongshu (RedNote)
A selection of Beijing high school emblems– a “badge of honor” that maps your place in the city’s educational hierarchy. A tiny, woven piece of social geography. Image: RedNote
After enrollment, everyone had to pay RMB 45 (some USD 5.54 at the exchange rate of the time–Ed.) to have their uniform custom-made, one set for winter, and one for summer. The material and colors varied slightly. If you wore them out, you could order another one from the school—but that rarely happened; the fabric was incredibly tough. The two times I ordered a new set were solely because I’d gotten taller,” Jiarui adds. “For those who don’t understand just how loose and durable those uniforms were, let me put it this way: They were so loose that we called them “potato sacks.” In winter, I could wear my uniform over my down jacket and sweater without it straining at the seams. My mom said I looked like a giant loaf of bread from a distance.”
But by middle school, many students, especially girls, were on track to developing a sense of gender identity and a desire to pursue “beauty.” They began resisting wearing the uniforms or altering them. Some would seek out tailors to take in the sleeves or trousers to better show their figures – a practice that defied specific school regulations and entailed “punishment.”
“Students at that age might not fully appreciate the well-intentioned purpose behind the uniform,” explains Ms. Chen, an Ethics and Moral Character teacher at a middle school in Handan, Hebei. “The uniform offers a form of protection for children from different family backgrounds. Regardless of their social status outside of the school, they are equal, all wearing the same clothes, representing the same identity–and they should care for one another. I believe this, to some extent, reduces bullying stemming from socio-economic disparities. Furthermore, uniforms can mitigate body shaming. Many kids go through growth spurts and suddenly gain weight in middle school. If everyone were to wear their own clothes, some children’s body types would be more apparent than others – we don’t want that. Also, the simple design helps students focus less on their appearance during these precious years and dedicate more time and energy to their studies.”
“I clearly remember adding the rule forbidding unauthorized alterations to uniforms and requiring them to be worn except under special circumstances. A specific student organization was responsible for enforcing it. The desire to look beautiful is understandable, but middle school isn’t the time for it,” Chen adds.
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Prep for Preppy: The 2010s
China’s 2001 entry into the World Trade Organization didn’t just open economic doors; it began to subtly reshape the aesthetics of a generation. As the nation’s per-capita GDP–gross domestic product, the most comprehensive gauge of an economy’s health–climbed and the Internet forged new cultural pipelines, the philosophy behind school uniform design reached its first true turning point in the 2010s.
No longer looking inward for inspiration, students and administrators alike found new templates in the preppy, collegiate styles beaming in from British and American film and television.
The shift was both national and intensely local. The year after this author walked out of her own primary school gates for the last time, in 2011, the children at Sanhe Primary School witnessed a sartorial revolution. The familiar sea of blue-and-white stripes, stamped with our town’s insignia, simply vanished.
In its place arrived a new identity. For the boys, shirts with blue-green checkered collars. For the girls, shirts with reddish-brown checkered collars, paired not with trousers but with culottes. It was a deliberate departure, a move so distinct it earned its own label: These were the new “Western-style” or “British-style” uniforms–a small but potent symbol of a school, and a country, trying on a new fit for a new era.
Ms. Li, a students’ parent, still remembers the stir caused when her daughter’s school first introduced blazer-style uniforms: “My daughter was in fourth grade at the time. We suddenly received the ‘news’ over the summer break, and I paid the fee for her new custom uniform. Both my daughter and I loved the plaid skirt and white shirt. Although the fit was still somewhat loose and the fabric ordinary, it sparked lively discussion in the parent chat groups–many felt such uniforms seemed more ‘classy.’”
Anne Hathaway serving some obligatory plaid realness in the 2001 box office banger The Princess Diaries.
We know, we know. It’s a blurry pic. Just squint and witness some British tradition and American plaid vibes, remixed with a Chinese red tie into the ultimate preppy uniform upgrade. Circa 2010/11. Image: Layla Zhang
And yes, we still know. A blurry pic. But a crystal-clear memory of a sartorial shift. Circa 2010/11, caught between two eras: the rise of the preppy uniform and the slow farewell to its predecessor, the classic track suit. Image: Layla Zhang
“We were all thrilled that the uniforms were finally updated, even though they became a bit more expensive,” says Li’s daughter, “I had seen the shirt and plaid skirt uniforms in the 2001 American movie The Princess Diaries and was so envious. We called them ‘British style’ or ‘Scottish style.’ Last year, when I was studying in Edinburgh, Scotland, and saw street performers playing the bagpipes, it immediately reminded me of my old uniform.”
This period saw school uniforms begin to exhibit distinct “mix-and-match” characteristics: Schools often kept sports kits for daily wear while customizing a set of “formal wear” or “ceremonial uniforms” for important occasions. Boys typically got blazers, shirts and trousers, while girls received their first-ever “school uniform skirts.” In terms of color, glaring, high-saturation combinations gradually gave way to more subdued shades like navy blue, grey, and burgundy.
The school badge, once a humble piece of embroidered thread, underwent its own quiet revolution. It was polished, metallic and transformed into a proper emblem of identity. You’d find it now, gleaming on ties and fastened on buttons—small, hard symbols of a new educational aspiration.
But this wave of change, like so many others in China, didn’t wash over the entire country at once. This new uniform culture was primarily a phenomenon of first- and second-tier cities and international schools, mirroring clear regional disparities and the urban-rural divide.
Second-tier cities (like Chengdu, Hangzhou, Nanjing, Wuhan, to name a few) are the dynamic regional capitals: Rapidly developing, economically pulsating and fiercely modernizing, but a clear step below the first-tier in global clout. The fact that a child in Shanghai’s trendsetting Jing’an District could be adjusting a new tie with a polished badge, while a student in a rural county might still be wearing the decade-old “scrambled egg” tracksuit, was never just about fashion. It was a perfect, sartorial echo of the vast and uneven landscape of China’s socio-economic development—a story of who was included in the new vision of modernity, and who, just for the moment, was left waiting. #TemperTeachings
“The introduction of the British style essentially reflected the rising middle class’s pursuit of the outward symbols of ‘elite education,’” says Lin Wei, a Shanghai parent who experienced the uniform makeover as a student herself. “It signaled the uniform’s initial shift from a purely practical identifier to status symbol.”
“When it comes to the 2011 uniform reform… Within a few months, I noticed the children’s enthusiasm for learning and their sense of belonging to the school soared unprecedentedly. This proved our decision at the timing for the overhaul had been correct. And today, school uniforms have become an important part of aesthetic education in schools,” states Yang.
Entering the 2020s, Gen Z (and soon Gen Alpha–born in and after 2013) said “we’re not dressing like extras in a period piece.” The result? A cultural confidence glow-up for the ages. Schools are now dropping coordinated collections, complete with suits, coats and bags. The uniform has officially been upgraded to a wardrobe. Image: RedNote
Image: RedNote
“Middle and primary school pupils’ uniforms shoot.” To be exact. For good measure: Middle school in China is very similar to junior high school in the United States in terms of the students’ age (12-15) and its position in the educational ladder–#TemperTeachings. Image: RedNote
Express Yourself: The 2020s-20xxs
Entering the 2020s, with Gens Z and Alpha (the latter born in 2013 and after) becoming the main student body and the push for cultural confidence sweeping the country, Chinese school uniform design was ready to mix things up.
The most notable change is the variety. Beyond the standard summer and winter sets, schools have added socks, bags, coats, down jackets, suits and sweaters, creating coordinated wardrobes.
“In winter, we have reversible down jackets. For spring and autumn, there are knitted vests and shirts. In summer, girls have knee-length skirts. We also have windbreakers and hats, and the school allows us some freedom to mix and match within set parameters,” says Zidi, a 16-year-old student at Beijing National Day School.
The change in color scheme is equally striking. Traditional high-saturation bright colors are being replaced by a range of low-saturation “Morandi colors,” which refer to the distinctive, muted color palette made famous by the Italian painter Giorgio Morandi (1890-1964): More fashionable and muted tones like dusty pink, haze blue and bean-paste green are appearing on campuses.
The popularity of these colors is closely linked to the spread of aesthetic education concepts on social media. On lifestyle and e-commerce app Xiaohongshu (RedNote), many students showcase their school uniform and casual wear combinations. In the era of bright red and blue uniforms, school clothes and everyday wear were often incompatible, but today’s students can easily style them together.
“Look at this navy blue knitted sweater! Can you even tell it’s part of my uniform? I can pair it with my trench coat or a vest,” Zidi exclaims.
Simultaneously, the guochao trend has blown into school uniform design. The guo-what now? (Hint: Check box below– yep, another dressed-to-the-nines dose of #TemperTeachings)
The brand storming the stage was Li-Ning, a name every 1990s kid knew from the school gym. But this was different. Gone were the simple tracksuits. In their place was a collection that was unapologetically, defiantly Chinese: Think oversized hoodies emblazoned with bold Chinese calligraphy, all punctuated by a powerful gallery of red accents. Yours truly was there to see it. The Chinese Internet, to put it mildly, lost its mind. This wasn’t just a new fashion line; it was a cultural mic drop. Overnight, the old, dusty assumption that domestic sportswear was just a cheaper alternative was completely napalmed. This was the big bang, the official emergence of guochao (国潮| guócháo). Literally translating to “national tide” (from 国产| guóchǎn, “domestically produced” and 潮流| cháoliú, “trend”), guochao (also known as “China Chic”) became the umbrella term for a new wave of products—from fashion and food to toys ‘n tech—that were proudly packed with traditional Chinese cultural elements and modern swagger. It was no longer about looking to the West for cues; it was about debuting the dapper–or wearing your heritage, boldly so.
In its new 2024 uniforms, Wuxi Foreign Language School introduced a modified qipao-style dress for girls’ summer wear, while boys received formal wear with Mao-style suits featuring stand-up collars.
For good measure: In Mandarin, the modern term “qipao” usually refers to the one-piece female long(er) dress many will know from Wong Kar-wai’s 2001 melancholic masterpiece In the Mood for Love. The movie saw the fashion crowd salivating at the sight of protagonist Maggie Cheung’s “traditional Chinese” dresses—aka qipao.
These designs retain classic elements of traditional attire while incorporating modern aesthetics in fabrics and cuts, becoming a beautiful feature of campus culture.
“I believe these changes are very important. School uniforms must not only serve practical functions but also carry the function of aesthetic education, becoming a vessel for school cultural identity and even, to some extent, a calling card for a city’s educational modernization,” says Zhou Shiyan, a school uniform designer.
“With the acceleration of educational modernization and the trend of consumption upgrading, school garb is gradually transitioning from uniformity to individuality, from the single function of standardized dress to the integration of multiple values. We must deepen cultural empowerment, thoroughly explore the essence of outstanding traditional Chinese culture, combine cultural creativity with modern design, and build a campus attire system with Chinese characteristics,” Chen Dapeng, President of the China National Garment Association, noted at a forum on school uniform design and quality on April 18 in Shishi, Fujian Province in southeast China.
The maligned “potato sack” uniform becomes the ultimate friendship canvas, covered in signatures and inside jokes. Image: RedNote
With the transformation and rapid development of school uniforms you’re reading about right here, right now, dear audience, you might assume that students loathe their old garb and are eager to take them off as soon as possible. However, it’s worth noting that some of the very same “potato sacks” from the 2000s have found an unexpected afterlife—not as relics of repression, but as artifacts of affection.
They performed, say, an act of “alchemy” on the way out the school gates. Instead of discarding their maligned, sack-like uniforms, they would invite close friends to cover them in signatures, doodles and messages.
This was more than a fad; it was a collective reclaiming. The very garment designed for uniformity was transformed into a deeply personal canvas of friendship and future dreams. And in a final twist of poetic justice, the uniform’s cheap, enduring polyester, once a symbol of discomfort, became the perfect, lasting textile for the endurance of memory.
Beyond sentimental send-offs, certain iconic uniforms—like those of top schools such as Renda Fuzong (人大附中| Réndà Fùzhōng)–the affiliated high school of Beijing-based Renmin University of China, and Shenzhen Middle School—have transcended their original purpose. Alumni, now in their 30s and 40s, still occasionally pull them out for nostalgia’s sake.
The ultimate flex? Wearing academic royalty’s badge as an adult, sourced straight from tech gargantuan Alibaba’s Taobao online shopping Walhalla. You don’t need the hallowed halls of, in this case, Renda Fuzhong–just the ‘fit. Image: Taobao
Even those who never set foot in those hallowed halls frantically search for replica uniforms on the digital hunting grounds of tech titan Alibaba’s Taobao app, eager to cop a piece of that aspirational culture. One might almost say it’s the ultimate flex: Wearing the badge of academic royalty, sourced straight from the Internet’s busiest bargain bazaar.
Feng Ke, an NYU graduate slash this author’s peer, shares a touching story of style—in more than one way—with us. For their engagement in 2022, while others might opt for a fancy watch or a romantic trip, Feng went for the cultural jugular. Her gift to her husband—a Renda Fuzhong alum—was a lesson in nostalgic romance.
First, the pièce de résistance: a brand-new, authentic set of his old high school uniform. Not a reimagined, chic version, but the genuine, loose-fit, sack-like article, the very same style the school has maintained for years.
But she didn’t stop there. Alongside this iconic outfit, she presented him with a custom-made DIY puzzle. The image it forms? A photograph of him as a teenager, dressed in that very uniform.
“Those ‘sack’ uniforms are a generational touchstone,” Feng reflects, “When you’re a student, all you feel is the pressure to study—and being forced to wear the same thing all year round. But looking back, it becomes something tender, a permanent connection to your youth,” she added, “Maybe that’s why so many people collect these uniforms, and why a school like Renda Fuzhong hasn’t felt the need to drastically redesign theirs. They’re still ‘high-saturation,’ still roomy—and still deeply loved.”
Here, then, lies the ever-so-subtle irony: The very uniforms designed to downplay individuality to the bare minimum have, over time, become keepsakes of it.
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May the Fashion Force Be With You
The two-decade-long transformation of school uniforms has been propelled by multiple social forces.
Economic development and consumption upgrading form the most fundamental driver. According to National Bureau of Statistics data from the first three quarters of 2024, the national per-capita consumption expenditure was RMB 20,631 (USD 2,897), a nominal year-on-year increase of 5.6 percent. The per-capita expenditure on clothing was RMB 1,109 (USD 156), up 5.1 percent, accounting for 5.4 percent of per-capita consumption expenditure. The 2024 China National Garment Association’s “Report on Challenges and Opportunities in China’s School Uniform Industry” indicates that, in recent years, demand from parents and children has gradually shifted from “simple and practical” to “beautiful and elegant,” reflecting substantial changes in mindset.
The cultural influence brought by globalization also played a role. Through the Internet, Chinese educators and parents get to see the diversity in school uniforms worldwide. The rise of guochao over the past seven years is a creative response to globalization, embodying the practice of cultural confidence in the microcosm of school uniforms.
We are finally beginning to acknowledge a truth neglected for decades: A school uniform is, in itself, a lesson in aesthetic education.
The shift in educational philosophy is quiet but profound. A growing number of educators have awakened to the idea that a uniform is more than a mere tool for management–it is a foundational element of campus aesthetics, a student’s “second skin,” shaping their poise and sense of dignity. The self-confidence and belonging fostered by a well-tailored, thoughtfully designed uniform were impossible to achieve in the shapeless “sack tracks” of the past.
When stripe comes to stich, the evolution of China’s school uniforms is more than a change of fabric; it is a soft spin. The journey from monotonous, sack-like forms to distinctive, intentional designs reflects a deeper current: The nation’s rapidly elevating aesthetic tastes, its evolving search for a modern cultural identity and the profound transformation of what it means to grow up in a developing country.
So, we are left with a compelling question: If this is what we wear today, what will the children of tomorrow wear to school?
Perhaps, as per Zhou’s suggestion: It should be the garments that children are willing to wear proudly…
Outside the school gates.
FEATURED IMAGE: COLLAGE MADE UP OF REDNOTE POSTS RELATED TO SCHOOL UNIFORMS IN CHINA
Contact Layla Zhang at yz7048@nyu.edu
Edited by Elsbeth van Paridon
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Perpetually in pursuit of the greater good that is “China Fashion”, van Paridon set up The China Temper to help promote the dynamite dynamic fashion scene sprouting within Beijing, Shanghai, and China overall. Catering to anybody and everybody who reads English and/or Chinese, Temper covers all the basics and bases. From China's street style scenery to its budding photographers, internationally renowned designers, and underground quirks plus phenomena: We present one hot-hip-happening current collective weaving The New "Made in China" tag.
The term “Made in China” is undergoing the ultimate 21st Century makeover. Escorted by the increasingly strong influence of a new thinking among China’s younger generations, regarding individuality and the expression thereof, the fashion scene in the Middle Kingdom is exploding. And stretches far beyond what meets the eye. It’s appliqué, one might say.
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