Lazy JulieContent Warning: This essay contains discussions of disordered eating, body image issues and beauty standards.
Having spent a few years of my teens as an awkward nerd girlie, I was shocked to see the whole world change when I turned 15 (it does sound like a nod to The Summer I Turned Pretty, but hear me out). To me, it was the summer I dyed my hair bright red for no particular reason. Suddenly, everything shifted — people (men, to be precise) treated me differently, doors seemed to open, and life itself felt brighter and more colourful. It was wild — especially because I hadn’t changed internally. The simple act of dyeing my hair conferred me, as I later realised, an overnight ‘pretty girl’ status.
That was the first time I experienced pretty privilege. While it felt surreal, I soon realised it wasn’t as unique as I thought.
Pretty privilege, a form of cognitive bias, refers to the advantages and preferential treatment that people deemed conventionally attractive receive in various areas of life simply because of their appearance. While the concept has deep historical roots, the specific term ‘pretty privilege’ gained prominence through online feminist discourse and the rise of social media platforms like TikTok.
The concept is supported by psychological theories like the halo effect and the physical attractiveness stereotype. The halo effect, introduced by psychologist Edward Thorndike in 1920, describes how our overall impression of a person influences our judgments of their specific traits. In this context, individuals deemed attractive are often assumed to possess other positive qualities, such as intelligence and kindness. Similarly, the physical attractiveness stereotype suggests that people associate beauty with positive attributes, leading to biased perceptions and treatment of attractive individuals. These psychological principles have been observed in various settings, including hiring practices, academic evaluations, and even legal judgments.
It’s undeniable: pretty people tend to have it better. We’re drawn to certain standards of beauty, gravitating toward particular facial features, body types, and looks, often unconsciously treating those who embody these standards with more kindness, attention, or favour. From dating and professional settings to social interactions, appearance holds a sway that’s hard to ignore.
Yet, this privilege is also superficial and conditional. It is tied to fleeting and often unattainable standards of beauty that vary by culture, region, and era. For those who don’t fit these narrow ideals, the consequences can be significant, ranging from exclusion and bias to mental health struggles, including body dysmorphia or an overwhelming desire to ‘fix’ themselves. We know this, yet the obsession persists. Many of us still find ourselves losing our minds in front of the mirror, consumed by the pressure to measure up. A vivid example of this is captured in — you guessed it — The Substance, where the dinner date scene brutally exposes the desperation and anguish tied to failing beauty ideals — the protagonist frantically deteriorates under the crushing expectation to remain desirable. It’s a haunting reminder of how deeply these pressures can carve into our sense of self. I remember far too many moments like this from my own life — rushing somewhere, hating my own body during luteal phase, failing to pick an outfit or draw the perfect eyeliner, and then realising: “Great, besides looking ugly, I also feel like shit”.
While body image issues are a common concern among young women across Europe, the factors influencing these perceptions differ between Eastern and Western regions. Eastern European women often face challenges stemming from traditional cultural norms and societal transitions, whereas Western European women are more affected by media-driven beauty standards.
Slavic dolls in the making
Coming from Eastern Europe, I’ve seen firsthand how suffocating these standards can be. The culture of constant grooming, strict beauty regimens, and the unspoken rule of always looking ‘put together’ might seem exhausting to outsiders — but for many, it’s second nature. We learn it from our mothers and grandmothers.
That’s why I found the rise of Slavic doll/bimbo trends on TikTok curious. If you don’t know what that is, think: heavy makeup, glamorous fashion, exaggerated femininity, and an unapologetic celebration of being ‘over-the-top pretty.’ In my culture, you can’t be overdressed. But it’s not just about looks — even food plays a role. The so-called ‘slavic doll diet’? It’s a fantasy made up by Western creators. Trust me, the traditional Slavic diet is more pierogi than chia puddings and avocado — and far from vegan-friendly.
‘So…you’re mocking or fetishising us, but at the same time our looks are an ‘aesthetic’ or ‘goals’ now?’, I thought. There’s a long history behind this dynamic. After the Cold War, Western media often exoticised Eastern European women — portraying them as hyper-feminine, mysterious, or desperate for a better life. This mix of political history, economic inequality, and old-school beauty ideals made us easy to fetishise. Now, platforms like TikTok have simply repackaged that same gaze into an aesthetic: polished, glamorous, and stripped of the real cultural context behind it. That’s why, from one side, the Slavic doll trend feels like an extension of that: turning a complex identity into a consumable, hyperstylised fantasy that fits neatly into an aesthetic trend, stripped of nuance but easy to sell.
From another side, despite the controversy, this trend gave some young Eastern European women a way to explore cultural identity through humour and style. For some, it’s nostalgic. For others, it’s empowering — a chance to reclaim pride in a heritage that’s often misunderstood or mocked. It even helped me make peace with my own version of beauty and self-care.
And yes, I’m no exception to the Slavic girl stereotype. I’ve got my nails done religiously since I was 14, and I became a regular at beauty salons early on. My mother always made sure she looked good, and passed those standards onto me. Even now, living in another country, she’ll send me a WhatsApp message about my nail condition if I send her a picture. ‘Time to visit your nail tech?’ she’ll say. It might sound harsh, but I’ve learned not to take it personally — I just make the appointment.
In this culture, being ‘put together’ isn’t vanity. It’s a sign of self-respect — a way of showing pride in yourself and your upbringing, not an attempt to seek male attention. I vividly remember the few days I went to school without makeup — people would ask if I was sick or if someone had died (i.e. that’s why I looked terrible). It sounds absurd now, but back then, it reinforced a powerful lesson: never let yourself slip.
Looking presentable was never about catering to the male gaze — it was about meeting a basic, internalised standard of dignity and discipline that everyone, especially women, was expected to uphold. As schoolgirls, we couldn’t wait to grow up so we could wear heels and makeup, ditch backpacks for handbags — become feminine. That usually came with diets, too, sometimes extreme.
“If you want to eat, drink some water, here’s the anorexic’s secret.”
One online group, the Typical Anorexic (TA), was notorious on Russian and Ukrainian social media for promoting thinspiration images, extreme fasting challenges, and “water diets.” While less documented in the West, TA was a powerful and damaging force in the East, shaping the body image of thousands of teenage girls.
Active primarily in the 2000s and 2010s, TA was a pro-ana subculture on platforms like VK (the Russian equivalent of Facebook), LiveJournal, and, later, early Instagram/Tumblr spaces. These groups were self-organised, often private, and spread thinspo imagery, extreme dieting plans, and toxic “motivation” around extreme thinness.
I still remember these lines like a mantra: “If you want to eat, drink some water — here’s the anorexic’s secret.” Or, “If you want to eat, eat an apple. If you don’t want an apple, then you don’t want to eat.”. Thanks, TA!
Although infamous in Eastern Europe — especially among teenage girls — TA didn’t receive the same Western media coverage as Tumblr’s pro-ana communities.
At 13, I believed 45 kg was the maximum acceptable weight. When a boy I liked once said, ‘You look kinda chubby,’ I dropped to 35. And once again, I’m terrified to see the same thinspiration trend coming back in style. This resurgence of pro-ana content can be attributed to the revival of early 2000s aesthetics, particularly among Gen Z, and the normalisation of diet culture on social media platforms. Looking good becomes a discipline — not a choice, but a lifestyle. The pressure is so ingrained that it doesn’t even feel oppressive; it just is.
The Slavic Bimbo Survival Guide
Let me now share with you my experience with all things beauty in France, where I’ve been based for a bit more than two years now. I call it a ‘survival guide’, because, well — adapting to Western beauty norms feels like survival sometimes.
It wasn’t until I moved to Western Europe that I realised just how much societal pressure I carried with me. Back home, beauty was duty. Here, it’s… a whisper, not a scream. France, with its ‘woke up like this’ and ‘je ne sais quoi’ philosophy and subtle elegance, made me feel like too much — loud, high-maintenance, and glam in all the wrong ways.
A while ago, I asked a woman at a pharmacy for advice on which cleansing oil to choose. Her response was definitely a beauty opinion, though not the kind I was expecting. She looked at me and maybe not maliciously but perhaps a bit baffled asked “Do you wear your make-up like this every day?’’ There I was, standing in a French pharmacy, being judged for asking about a cleansing oil — because yes, I do wear makeup like this every day. My makeup was as nude and “casual” as it gets — at least in my world.
That moment stayed with me. Not because it was overtly hostile, but because it revealed just how different the rules are here. In Eastern Europe, being put together is a matter of pride — a sign of self-respect. In France, it risks being seen as insecure, vain, or trying too hard.
So where does that leave me? Too foreign for Paris, too bare-faced for Russia. It’s a weird kind of dissonance — where I’m always either “trying too hard” or “not trying hard enough.”
What people don’t always get is that this hyper-feminine performance wasn’t just for fun back home — it was survival. A way to gain social capital, be taken seriously, or even just to feel visible. I learned young that being pretty meant being noticed. Being invisible meant being overlooked — or worse, underestimated.
So yes, I do my nails. I style my hair. I book the facials and the laser. Not because I’m shallow, but because I know the rules — and I’ve learned to play the game before I even knew there was one.
The funniest thing? This whole natural-is-best approach is just another aesthetic. Another performance — just sneakier. It rewards women who are already blessed with clear skin, symmetrical faces, and good bone structure, then calls it “effortless.” Natural is only desirable when you already look like a model before foundation. So let’s not pretend any of this is neutral. The French girl beauty fantasy? It’s just as curated. Just with fewer sparkles.
These days, I’m starting to see it differently. Makeup, clothes, beauty rituals — they’re not chains, they’re a cultural inheritance of looking like you care, because we always had to. So when I lean into the Slavic bimbo aesthetic now, it’s not just vanity. It’s memory, rebellion, identity, and art. It’s a way of saying: I see your beauty rules — and I choose my own.
I’m still figuring it out. I certainly don’t want to conform. Maybe the answer isn’t choosing between Western subtlety and Eastern glamour — maybe it’s learning how to wear both, depending on the day. Or not wearing anything at all, and still knowing I’m enough.Survival isn’t just looking good — it’s knowing why you’re doing it. And choosing to stay soft in a world that demands so much from women, just to be seen.
High-Maintenance and Highly Aware
Pretty privilege might seem like a superpower, but it’s also a trap. It reinforces a system that commodifies women’s bodies, reducing worth to surface-level traits. And this system doesn’t just hurt those excluded — it chains even the ‘winners’ to a constant chase of shifting ideals.The first step to breaking free is awareness. Notice when it’s happening. Call out the bias — even in ourselves. And try to focus more on what’s within than what’s on display. Is it easy? Is it realistic? No. But it’s a start.
Ultimately, the point isn’t to shame those who benefit from pretty privilege — but to question a system that makes it so powerful. The same system says beauty is pain. Exhausting, uncredited, unpaid work that takes up time and energy — but costs nothing less than your mental and physical well-being.
There’s a reason we have a saying in Russian: “Dad is working, Mum is beautiful.” So the next time someone calls me high-maintenance, I’ll take it as a compliment. At least I know how to maintain something. What we really need to dismantle is a world that makes being beautiful feel like a full-time job
Written by Julie Antropova.
Julie Antropova is a linguist, human rights advocate, and journalist based in Paris. Originally from Russia, she reflects on her Eastern European background in her writing. In her free time, she loves reading and discussing books, visiting art exhibitions, and learning foreign languages
Illustrated by Selen Sarikaya.