At a local Sephora, it’s not uncommon to see droves of young girls fawning over the latest skincare products—the same ones advertised to adults as a way to replenish the complexions of youth. These girls, usually aged 10-13, have entered the social media lexicon as “Sephora tweens,” as part of the growing trend of young girls inserting themselves into the role of not only the adult but the consumer.
There is, of course, a long history linking women to material goods as the keepers and curators of domestic life. As social critic Rita Felski put it, “Femininity is formed through mass production and mass reproduction, disseminated through endless images of female glamour and fame domesticity.” Traditionally, to be feminine is to either be a femme fatale, the endless collector of items aimed at maximizing beauty or to be the provider—and the most popular way to provide is through an intimate engagement with mass production. Capitalism is guilty as charged, as usual.
But, why are so many young girls adopting the role of the consumer so early? Just a few months ago, an eight-year-old girl was captured on dashcam stealing her mother’s car—not to see her friends, or go to a park, but to go shopping at her local Target. Clearly, the ways of being a young girl in today’s world are undergoing a massive restructuring—with social media as its supportive scaffolding.
As members of Gen Alpha grow increasingly enamored with the worlds of luxury cosmetics, fast fashion, and even stainless steel water bottles—the Stanley Cup craze is unforgettable—the more the line between personality and possession blurs. TikTok has popularized trends like “clean girl,” “coastal grandma,” and “vanilla girl,” by encouraging users to curate their identities through specific consumer choices that match each “vibe.” While these personalities are not gender-specific, they are largely targeted to feminine-presenting people, and fall in line with a long tradition of women investing intention into their looks, with the hopes they will be perceived as unintentional or natural: “no makeup”-makeup looks, messy buns, dewy skin that is really the result of skincare products.
Of course, many share the memories of leafing through their moms’ makeup draw and plastering an all-too-bright red lipstick across their lips, or attempting to walk in a pair of high heels that are four sizes too large. However, the main difference between playing dress-up and the aesthetics marketed to young girls today is that the latter has successfully convinced children to believe they should own the same products their parents do, not just borrow them for fun.
For those unable to invest in high-end pieces or products, fast fashion offers an even more accessible way for young girls to embrace these trends. Companies like Shein, Amazon, and the newly added TikTok Shop feature (where users can purchase products without leaving the app), match the pace influencers take to aestheticize a new personality at frightening levels—especially for impressionable users who may feel like the only way to be is to consume.
The premature focus on appearances and “curating” one of the various manufactured aesthetics that pop up every other week on TikTok’s For You page is especially harmful to young girls who are in the throes of figuring out who they are and what they like and don’t like. The commercialization of identity makes it seem like it is possible to purchase a desired identity, but the quick-moving pace of social media and the constant comparison makes it a nearly impossible cycle, where one is always lacking and purchasing more and more, to no satisfaction. The more young girls look to the products marketed across social media to inform their sense of self, the more identity becomes tied to economic status rather than self-expression.
