I explicitly remember the excitement I felt in 2009, getting home from school, turning on the TV and tuning into ‘60-minute makeover’, ‘What not To Wear’, or something else of the like. As I perched on the edge of the couch in an anticipated fixation, I was eager to see how the “ugly duckling” or “fashion nightmare” at the beginning of the episode, was transformed into a new, prettier, more fashionable person at the conclusion of the show.

The “makeover reality show” was a core-category of television that I remember growing up, spawning productions like ‘The Biggest Loser’, ‘Australia’s next top model’, ‘60-minute makeover’, ‘Beauty and the Geek’, and ‘What Not to Wear’. Rising to peak popularity in the noughties and 2010’s, this particular brand of viewer entertainment revolved around the same storyline in all of its different amalgamations. The hosts pluck a subject (or multiple) from suburban obscurity with the single goal of transforming them into — by wider society’s standards — a better, more fashionable, more attractive individual by the episode or series’ conclusion.

While these shows have been largely left in the past, they have seen a recent resurgence on TikTok — with clips circling on the app and an influx of Gen Z watching or rewatching the series’. Often these excerpts on TikTok are mocking the outfits, makeup, or hairdo’s that these makeovers entailed — which, might I add, at the time, we all lapped up with approving nods.

Yet, as I was flicking through these clips and reflecting on my own perceptions of the shows, I couldn’t help but draw a comparison to the speed in which society now mindlessly adopts and follows fashion and beauty trends. Except now, instead of a couple of middle-class, often white women on the TV telling us how to dress and look, it’s a myriad of influencers and celebrities who hold the power.

These shows made entertainment through transforming people into carbon copies of the trending beauty ideal of the time. In that, they are somewhat reincarnated in the influence that popular ‘aesthetics’ have over us now.

This was echoed by journalist and broadcaster Pandora Sykes, and investigative journalist Sirin Kale on their BBC podcast “Unreal: A Critical History of Reality TV” in an episode titled “The Makeover Era”. Sirin considers this when analysing 2000’s UK makeover show ‘What Not to Wear’:

“One thing I do find enjoyable about rewatching ‘What Not to Wear’ is the style advice… the whole message was conform and you will prosper. Instead of a nose job [like in makeover show ‘The Swan’], it’s a regulation issue midi skirt. Where is the individuality?”

They quote media critic Jennifer Pozner who reiterates their sentiment in her book, ‘Reality Bites Back: The Troubling Truth About Guilty Pleasure TV’. An excerpt reads that “in ‘What Not to Wear’, an ethnically and economically diverse string of women are ridiculed for failing to conform to a single upper middle-class mainstream conservative, traditionally feminine standard of fashion and beauty.”

The concept of “the makeover” isn’t a new one. We’ve not only seen it in these reality shows, but in more movie montages than I can count, coupled with an upbeat soundtrack, a string of different outfit try-ons, a drastic hair change and a full face of makeup — the protagonist eventually emerging as the now desirable, conventionally beautiful main character. Cue The Devil Wears Prada, The Princess Diaries, Wild Child and Clueless, just to name a few.

The problem with “the makeover” is that more often than not, they all emerge looking largely similar to each other, stripping the subject of any individuality they once had. In this, the very premise of makeover TV shows is emblematic in our continual desire to mould ourselves into the different social media-driven aesthetics we see today.

This concept of aesthetics that has emerged predominantly on TikTok in the past couple of years, hasn’t always been the label of identity it is today. Aesthetics — previously a term that alluded to a set of principles concerned with beauty and artistic taste — have been granted a new meaning by Gen Z, one that has given a name to fashion and beauty’s many different subcultures.

Similarly, style subcultures aren’t a new thing, either. Yet historically, they emerged in opposition to the mainstream fashion and pop-culture zeitgeist, existing in small communities on the metaphoric “edge of society”— not adopted by millions of online figures all over the world.

It is a good thing that niche and traditionally atypical styles have been given a platform to become popular and even aspirational trends. However, Instagram and TikTok have ultimately grouped every iteration of an outfit into a particular category, thus tending to strip these creative fashionistas of their own personal style.

From cottage core, to coastal grandmother, to weird girl, to Matilda Djerf-ification, every combination of clothes, accessories and makeup seem to now have a category – a category in which millions of keen-eyed social media users are attempting to mimic.

What is more, it seems that aesthetics that people aspire towards only come into concrete existence after they are legitimised by people of influence. These people, in turn, are often skinny, conventionally attractive and can thus, to the wider audience, “pull it off”.

Yes, Bella Hadid walked down the streets of New York in underwear, a moto jacket and Ugg boots – and looked amazing doing so. But it leaves us wondering that if someone who wasn’t the world’s biggest supermodel did the same, would their outfit still be looked at in awe as the cool “weird girl aesthetic” of which Hadid is the leader, or instead deemed a colossal fashion faux pas?

Whether it’s the middle-class white hosts of ‘What Not To Wear’ telling you how to dress, or the skinny influencer or celebrity on your ‘For You’ page creating a new, increasingly niche aesthetic to mimic, it seems that fashion is being gradually stripped of any individuality that once was.

There are benefits to this categorisation of style. Not only does it let previously marginalised fashion denominations thrive online, but it facilitates a widespread and inclusive sense of belonging. For those who may feel on the outside in real life, the online fashion and beauty space has made it easier than ever to find and become a part of a community that aligns with one’s desired lifestyle or fashion choices.

Of course, personal style isn’t supposed to be completely spawned from one’s own imagination. Style is crafted through an amalgamation of experiences, influences, and observations – combined with the shapes, colours and specific items that incite confidence and comfortability in each individual. I’m not saying to not be inspired by people’s fashion and beauty choices online, but with the increasing proliferation of aesthetics, it seems that for many, their style choices aren’t valid until they are legitimised by a name, aesthetic category, and celebrity leader.

Ultimately, it seems that in whatever form, we will always be looking for a leader to drive us towards a specific ideal of how to look, or what to wear, and until society’s systems of judgement are rebuilt, I’m not sure when that will change.