Would you wait 90 days for a new shirt? Yes, say more shoppers

Here’s what conventional wisdom tells us: longer waits frustrate customers, damage loyalty, and hurt sales. Yet recent consumer psychology research reveals something far more counterintuitive. Studies from Georgetown University’s McDonough School of Business found that customers who waited longer actually purchased more. Diners wanted longer meals after waiting for tables, shoppers bought more items after queuing at sales. The mechanism is simple: when waits are prolonged, customers interpret this as social proof that the product is worth having, valued by others, desirable enough to justify the investment of time.

Research also shows that while resource scarcity can narrow options, product scarcity tends to increase perceived value and shift consumers’ willingness to delay gratification. The wait itself becomes part of the experience, part of what makes the final purchase mean something. Time becomes a filter, separating genuine want from algorithmic impulse.

These are learnings that the fashion industry is leaning on too as a growing number of young designers opt out of ready-to-wear entirely. No stock. No racks. No frantic end-of-season sales. What’s on offer instead is made-to-order clothing: customised, slow, and deliberately unhurried. The question is no longer who will wait, but why waiting suddenly feels like the point.

Waiting, but make it intentional

At brands like Re-Ceremonial, founded by Ateev Anand, waiting feels entirely appropriate. Focused on ceremonial and occasion wear, the label operates on the understanding that meaningful clothing doesn’t need to be rushed. These garments are destined for weddings, milestones, rites. Moments that come with their own built-in anticipation.

“The only space where we could really expect the consumer to have patience and give us the time needed to create a truly ethical, consciously made product was in the made-to-order ceremonial segment,” Anand explains. “Within that, people already had the mindset to let us explore the techniques that need not just resources but also time.”

The process unfolds across three crucial stages: design, development, and execution. The timelines for each vary wildly. Some clients spend six to eight months just in design conversations because the emotional stakes are that high. Others move quickly through design but invest heavily in execution.

What makes this work is that clients don’t see time as a concession to slow production. They see it as their own investment: a way of being present in what they wear. “The patience that it demands from them is part of the investment, not just the monetary investment,” Anand notes. “It’s not just lead time we’re offering. It’s the amount of time they need to be involved so that a whole facet of them comes through.”

Many become patrons precisely because of this evolving relationship. Re-Ceremonial doesn’t just design one outfit for one event; they build wardrobes around key pieces, returning to develop new looks that build on what already exists. This transforms the transaction into a conversation.

The comfort of custom

But it’s not only for ‘special-occasion’ clothes that people are willing to wait. Smaller, contemporary labels are also betting on customers having the patience to get something custom-made. Take Moving Parts, the clothing label founded by writer and designer Tanya Mehta earlier this year. For Mehta, clothing has always been personal. The former magazine journalist grew up making clothes for herself, pulled along in the slipstream of her mother’s deep engagement with fabric, visiting textile bazaars and returning from travels with suitcases filled with unfamiliar weaves. Those early impressions stayed with her as she moved through jobs in publishing and retail, observed trend cycles shift each month, eventually reaching a slow dissatisfaction with fast fashion’s sameness and short shelf life.

Moving Parts emerged from this personal pivot. Working exclusively with handloom and made-to-order garments, Mehta set out to challenge two persistent stereotypes: that handloom is anti-fit, and that it belongs to only a certain kind of wearer or body. Her practice is built around reimagining handwoven textiles as sensuous, contemporary, and sharply tailored rather than nostalgic or occasion-bound.

“I wanted to push against that and show that handlooms can be sexy,” Mehta explains. “It doesn't have to be an occasion-driven piece that you wear only on a festive day. It can replace fast fashion because of the cut and the fit.”

Mehta leans into made-to-order not just for logistical ease but also as an audience filter. Customers willing to wait are usually willing to engage, to think about fit, to care about the making, to keep the garment longer. “There’s a dialogue,” she explains. Customers ask about fabric drape and request colour variations, not prompts for flash sales or countdown timers.

What’s particularly striking is the diversity of who actually waits. Her customer base spans fashion influencers and craft purists, lawyers and creatives, reaching out from remote towns in Rajasthan to New York. One repeat customer orders from Timor-Leste. “I thought if I’m going to start a craft-based label, maybe I’m only going to attract that slightly more mature, intellectual consumer who’s very familiar with handloom,” she reflects. “But it’s also appealing to the fashion girl, a stylist, an influencer...people with varied aesthetics.”


Craft moves at its own pace

For brands rooted in craft traditions, the timelines aren’t negotiable. “The craft itself sets the pace,” says Hannah Khiangte, whose namesake label works with women-led weaving clusters in Mizoram. “Weaving cannot be rushed. Handwork cannot be rushed. At the studio, each process requires dedicated hours and a very specific skill set. It is a sequence that must be followed with respect, and it simply cannot fit into a 24-hour turnaround.” Working slowly, she adds, allows the brand to stay true to the women who weave, the culture they draw from, and the integrity they want the label to hold.


Dhruv Kapur, founder of DRVV, regards made-to-order less as innovation and more as restoration. “Fashion began as made-to-measure. One outfit for one person. That’s how the system was meant to work.” After years navigating conventional retail, he recognised a pattern: customers kept returning directly to him for custom requests. By 2017, he had restructured DRVV around that reality, and his newest venture, Everloom, sees the designer transform heirloom textiles into contemporary, one-of-a-kind garments. His critique is unsparing. “If you’re making a hundred pieces knowing you’ll only sell thirty at full price, you’ve already set the system up wrong.” Overproduction, Kapur argues, lies at the heart of fashion’s environmental waste and economic imbalance.

It takes six weeks for most DRVV pieces, longer when handwork is involved. “Even if it’s just a shirt, I’ll still take six weeks. I’m making something you’ll wear for the rest of your life. Out of that lifetime, can you give me six weeks?” he asks his clients.

Setting expectations

The timelines are shorter at Aangiwali, founded by mother-daughter duo Indro Bai and Dr Kanchan Sangwan, who are reviving Rajasthan’s aangi blouse tradition. Their pieces emerge through hand processes rooted in family archives and artisan collaborations. “We stitch the aangi first and then begin the craft on it, exactly the way women did generations ago,” explains Sangwan. Unlike contemporary embroidery processes, Aangiwali does not use frames for its handwork. The fabric is held free, which demands both precision and patience. “The artisans have to work with extra care. One slip of the needle can hurt them. So, the craft simply cannot be hurried.”

Over time, Sangwan has noticed that customers intuitively understand this rhythm. “They really value the craft and never rush us,” she says. For first-time buyers, the brand sets expectations early. Orders are scheduled responsibly, and monthly commissions are capped. “Once our slots are filled, we don’t take any more orders for that month. It keeps the work meaningful for us.” That structure also establishes trust. A typical Aangiwali piece takes 35 to 40 days to complete. During peak season, timelines can stretch to 80 to 90 days.

“Some clients talk about passing these pieces down to the next generation. That, for us, is the most beautiful compliment,” Sangwan reflects.

Now seeking: clothing with a soul

Customers agree that the wait is part of the story. For Hyderabad-based Shreya Namburu, who regularly favours custom-only brands like That Antique Piece or Bodements, fashion is driven less by seasonal trends and more by a kind of visual archaeology. “I saw a really cool chainmail dress when I was young; I think it was Versace. A lot of people still wear those now, it’s still quite popular,” she recalls. But rather than chasing the original or settling for a fast-fashion approximation, she tracked down an Etsy maker creating similar pieces and commissioned one. The appeal here is intentionality: finding the right maker, the right interpretation, the right story.

For Yuthika Gokaraju, a long-time customer of made-to-order fashion, the appeal lies in this recognition rather than speed. Designers, she explains, usually begin by asking where you come from, what kind of craft or karigari language belongs to that place, and whether it still resonates. “Time is not the thing one should optimise for with custom,” she says. “One should optimise for output.” Convenience, she adds, certainly has its place. “If you want something immediately, there are brilliant off-the-rack options.” But what those pieces often lack is what she values most. “They don’t always have heart and soul.”