Genovia Can Choke

She took off her glasses and suddenly she was worthy. I took off my glasses and walked into a door.

There is a very specific psychological collapse that occurs when you rewatch The Princess Diaries as an adult and realise the entire plot is just a teenage girl being violently de-frizzed until she’s deemed suitable for political office. At the time, we clapped. We thought it was aspirational. She walked into a royal makeover and walked out with straight hair, contacts, and trauma that would take years to unlearn. She was “fixed.” Her eyebrows were plucked. Her identity was shaved off like a tax write-off. And we thought it was normal. We thought it was progress.

The 2000s did not give us female empowerment. They gave us straighteners and self-loathing. They gave us girls who took off their hoodies and were suddenly loved. They gave us clumsy weirdos who just needed a smoky eye and a salad. These weren’t character arcs. They were visual permission slips for male desire. Clueless. She’s All That. Miss Congeniality. The Devil Wears Prada. Every plot was the same: woman exists. Woman gets a new outfit. Woman is now acceptable enough to kiss. Cue soft music. Cue slow motion. Cue dissociation.

We weren’t watching stories. We were watching lessons. The rules were clear as day: remove the quirks. Burn the fringe. Hide the thighs. Learn to walk in heels like you're not slowly dying inside. If the male lead didn't want to kiss you before the makeover, it meant you still had work to do. Ugly ducklings were never allowed to stay ducks. You had to evolve. You had to contour. You had to diet your way into desirability and then act surprised when someone liked you. Makeover montages weren’t fun. They were gendered re-education camps with an upbeat soundtrack.

I spent most of secondary school waiting for my montage. I thought someone would pluck me out of the hallway, rip off my hoodie, shave my legs, and tell me I’d been beautiful all along in a way that somehow required contour. I thought there’d be a spin, a reveal, a boy who looked mildly shocked but still horny. Instead, I got a Primark fitting room, a strapless dress that slid down every time I inhaled, and a random girl named Amy telling me “you’ve got quite a strong jawline for a girl.” No music. Just shame. And one sock on.

They told us we were being empowered. But really we were being formatted. We were made symmetrical. We were sanded down. We were taught that confidence is something you earn through pain and a push-up bra. What looked like femininity was actually just self-abandonment with shimmer. They called it self-improvement, but it was just submission edited to music. You weren’t allowed to feel beautiful unless someone else confirmed it with a gasp. And even then, you better learn to eat salad without chewing. Because if you gain five pounds, you’ll be demoted back to the before picture faster than you can say “Y2K binge restrict spiral.”

I want revenge. I want a reverse montage where I take off the heels, throw away the concealer, put my hoodie back on, and reapply my lip balm with the confidence of someone who’s just ghosted a man who once quoted Fight Club during sex. I want to play Avril Lavigne in the opposite direction. I want to be the girl who didn’t change. Not because she didn’t have the resources, but because she simply couldn’t be fucked. She is the future. She is free. She still has her glasses, and she’s using them to read you for filth.