#10: A Cog in the Beauty Machine

On growing up online and unlearning old habits.

When I was in school, a survey told me my most prominent character strength was an ‘appreciation of beauty.’

It made sense: my dad worked as a graphic designer and photographer and continues to prune his collection of Chinese celadon and blue-and-white vases in retirement. As a toddler, my mum clothed me discerningly in outfits I would wear in a heartbeat as a 27-year-old: agnès b. polka dots, overalls and a suede shearling vest, which I resented because it made me feel like the Michelin man, bloated rather than lithe and modelesque.

I would 100% wear this vest now. Mother knows best!

The survey deemed my hyper-awareness of beauty a gift, a virtue (for context, my classmates got noble traits like bravery, love of learning, and fairness). I didn’t think much of my result then, but I was indeed spending hours on Tumblr creating a mood board of everything I wanted my life to look like (at the time, this meant winged eyeliner, black Acne jeans and Gemma Ward). I was studying art as an elective and painting portraits of friends that emulated my favourite artists but lacked real meaning. By my mid-to-late teens, I was making money on Instagram as a fashion influencer through jobs more contingent on my appearance than sartorial flair.

I enjoyed this while it (and Instagram’s chronological, algorithm-unadulterated feed) lasted. Growing up shy and with the requisite set of insecurities most girls carry to adulthood, being liked online and valued for an ‘aesthetic’ — whether it was an outfit, my feed or my face — felt like redress. At university, my brand relationships outnumbered new friendships, but I took this as par for the course. My ‘character strength’ was reaping glossy rewards; that I hadn’t shaken my insecurities and missed out on a chaotic, vibrant social life didn’t seem to matter.