Lululemon, Brandy Melville and Turkish nose jobs. These are the indulgent beauty standards of Stanford’s campus. 

Appearances were once deemed tools of ideological assertion and individual attempts to showcase rarity, inspiring, for example, the Gen-Z social media phenomena of women who are “not like other girls.” However, for college-aged young women, physical appearances have warped into an expectation of assimilation that aligns with misogynistic beauty standards.

Stanford law professor and fashion historian Richard Ford once said in an interview, “I don’t believe anyone dresses entirely and only for themselves. It would be hard to imagine that in the same way it would be hard to imagine someone speaking only for themselves.” 

The digital age has established numerous platforms where physical appearances are showcased, leading us to regard social media as a transformative tool of diversity and amplification. To some extent, this is true. 

A young Black girl in a predominantly white town can now see herself represented in mass media — her skin, hair and features appreciated and recognized on a global landscape. No longer must young girls feel isolated in their identity. A mirrored representation is only a swipe away. However, amidst this affirmation, she is at risk of being inundated with ads for botox, nose jobs, lip fillers and more — chewing away at self-confidence as beauty standards permeate a broader terrain. 

These tools of universalization echo “universal” systemic beauty preferences, leading those once separated by geographic barriers to assimilate into a common aesthetic. 

In an interview with Kailee Roberts ’29, she said, “I really would think [beauty standards] are centered on more eurocentric values… and I think it’s a major reflection of everyday trends.” 

From the popular teen drama “Euphoria” to the emergence of TikTok trends centered around “clean girl” and “VSCO” aesthetics, the physical appearances prevalent throughout my formative years have always reflected mass media trends. 2020 was characterized by Y2K aesthetics permeating fashion spheres, and one could not exist in 2023 without the prototypical soap brows and minimalist fashion of the “clean girl” entering their sight. As a teen growing up amidst such beauty standards, deviation from the trendy norm was unimaginable.

The obligation to take part in such rigid beauty ideals, specifically for college-aged women, is rooted in the patriarchal ideology of women’s physical appearances being synonymous with their worth. This association has roots in ancient philosophy. Plato, for instance, once proposed an intrinsic link between one’s virtue and beauty. However, from a feminist landscape, as women freed themselves from the binds of domesticity, patriarchal bondage shifted to prescriptive beauty norms as a form of control. Women’s societal valuation could no longer be attributed to their domestic virtue, and was thus substituted with one’s physical virtue. 

Stanford might be “Nerd Nation,” but those beauty standards are still salient on our campus. Women, more so than men, feel they must consistently demonstrate their societal substance beyond an intellectual sense, beauty being the easiest demonstration. 

Ford acknowledges the salience of conformity, saying, “College campuses are an interesting place… the norms are pretty relaxed, and what I notice is that people tend to converge on campus-specific styles over time.”

As a freshman, I often battle with breaking the assimilationist, patriarchal mold here on campus. If I show up to class with a messy, haphazard bun, will my social status erode? If I decide to wear sweats rather than a Brandy Melville miniskirt to a frat party, will I be ignored? If my pores are not caked in makeup, will I be comfortable in myself or fear judgment in group settings?

From an opposing point of view, many contemporary feminists, deemed “choice feminists,” view every voluntary action of a woman as inherently feminist. Instilling choice within the hands of the subjugated class is, they claim, a founding doctrine of feminism. 

This feminist sector deems having the choice — no matter how tainted — to wear makeup, undergo cosmetic procedures and wear assimilationist, risque clothing as empowering, not oppressive. Many people view their style as an empowering tool of identification. 

Desire Gee ’29, for example, said she utilizes her personal fashion as a means of upholding her ethnic culture, saying, “… for the culture, I think it’s important to show creativity. And I would say that my style is street style, a way to represent Black culture and Black passion as well.”

In contemporary society, we must dissect our conventional choices. No social practice exists in solitude. Often, when making my outfit or makeup selections, I rely upon salient societal implications — my physical presentation is a microcosm of media influences, beauty standards and subconscious biases.

Thus, we have all become complacent in perpetuating beauty standards — ignorant to our class, gender or race distinctions. This assimilationist culture has tainted our beauty rationale. Rather than dressing for ourselves, we have begun dressing solely for social inclusion. 

So, the next time you are deciding what to wear for a frat party, or whether or not to wear makeup to a tailgate, I invite you to ask yourself, “Who am I dressing for?”