Alix Earle wants you to get ready with her.
She glides highlighter over her face, tiger-striping her cheeks and forehead with bronzing drops, stippling a fluffy brush over the whole perfect canvas. Demystifying each step as she goes, she drops tips for “you guys” and mildly roasts herself. Referencing a Nars liquid blush, she says, “My friends were like, ‘You cannot post this. Do not sell it out.’” While styling her brows, she confides, “I really need to get my eyebrows done.”
The whole time, she’s leaning in, utterly unselfconscious before the camera, looking like she’s extremely interested in you, the viewer. Like the leading lady of a rom-com, Earle is beautiful in a way that feels approachable, which is important. For her 5.7 million followers (and counting), Earle is the girl next door, at least in the gated community of TikTok. Maybe she’s the best friend who taught you how to use eyeliner; the sorority sister who held your hair back when you had one too many shots, and then promptly fixed your running mascara; the cousin whose mom let her buy Great Lash before you were even allowed to wear clear lip gloss. She’s mastered the precise titration between aspirational and relatable. When she’s doing something that falls into the first column (say, going to a club), you can bet she’ll also be doing, and posting, something that falls into the second (e.g., putting in her retainer in said club).
She is, in the parlance of parasocial relationships and endless memes, literally me. And, it seems, that’s what we want now when it comes to our celebrities, our politicians, and especially the people we watch on our phones. Friendship sells Tarte Shape Tape Radiant concealer and Too Faced Better Than Sex waterproof mascara and Barbie-pink cans of her pre-workout powder and energy drink, AminoLean Berry Alixir.
But what happens when the Everygirl becomes a bona fide It Girl?
Dress, Philosophy di Lorenzo…
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