Creative Non-Fiction

Once again, I am mindlessly scrolling Instagram. Once upon a time, I believed that my loyalty to this app lay in a desire to keep in touch with others, but I admit these days that this is a lie. When you are too worn out to concentrate on anything else, you, too, will understand the appeal of that instant flash of dopamine. I don’t know when the algorithm, the obedient robot that people treat like flesh, pinpointed me as someone easily hypnotised by make-up. It is a quick and satisfying fix. The artists in these videos draw a perfect line from A to B, and they are much better at it than me. They are prettier than me; they are wealthier than me. They always undergo a fairy-tale transformation from beautiful to more beautiful; their bare skin was covered with foundation and concealer before the camera even started to roll. They decorate their faces with the shapes favoured by modern fashion – sharp cheekbones, sharp eyeliner, full lips, thick lashes. They are usually women, and when they are not, they are homophobically harassed for their perfectionistic adherence to a female beauty standard in the comments.