Girlboss, Bimbo, Babygirl–What’s Next?
What's after girl dinners, Sonny Angels, and satin pink bows?
It is with the utmost respect to Sandy Liang, Simone Rocha, and Lana Del Rey that I must admit that I have bow fatigue. From high fashion runways to sweetly knotted around chicken drumsticks on TikTok, ribbons were 2023’s most ubiquitous accessory in my algorithm. A sweet, winking, and at times saccharinely ironic punctuation, bows were the ambassador of the larger “girlhood” trend that swept the zeitgeist last year. Girl dinner, girl math, satin pink ballet flats, Mary Janes, memes that read “I’m just a girl,” or “When you’re mean, this is who you’re mean to…” followed by a photo of some critter looking painfully adorable. The most flattering superlative for Internet heartthrobs like Jacob Elordi? Being crowned “babygirl.” This is concurrent with other nostalgic “girlhood” trends across TikTok and Instagram–Sonny Angels, Sylvanians, and, of course, Barbie-mania–and begs the question: how did we get here? Is it simply Y2K nostalgia? A self-soothing, post-pandemic regression? Inner-child consumerism? Irony run amok? Or is it something more existential?
If we take a step back and look at the last ten years of pop-feminist Internet trends, it charts an interesting evolution. 2014 marked the advent of the #Girlboss era, which gave way to the phenomenon of Bimbocore in 2020, and now, a mere three years later, we’ve reached peak baby girl bow-core. We went from She-E O to Hot Girl Summer to our goo goo ga ga, satin-pink baby era. To what do I personally attribute these shifts? From the results of my research, the despondent irony of modern femininity was forged by feelings of learned helplessness in the face of late-stage capitalism.
To use the word “girlboss” earnestly in 2024 is about as fashionable as saying “awkward turtle” (I shivered just writing that). It has fallen on the heap of Millennial cringe next to the bygone era of what I call “bacon-mustache-roflcopter humor.” The popularization of the term “girlboss” can be traced back to Sophia Amaruso, CEO of fast-fashion brand Nasty Gal, and her 2014 autobiography #GIRLBOSS. A year before, former COO of Facebook Sheryl Sandberg published the divisive self-help book Lean In: Women, Work, and the Will to Lead, which encouraged women to find more success in business by acting, well, more like men. The Wing–a women’s social club and co-working space geared towards professional networking–opened in every major city across America. Girlbossery was about being a self-made woman, creating your own business, ascending to the C-Suite, eschewing traditional gender roles, and daily affirmations–essentially, getting rid of every self-limiting belief standing in the way of becoming what all little girls aspire to be: a woman power posing in a gray blazer with a high six-figure salary. Once this ideology collided with the 2016 election of famed misogynist Donald Trump, the zeitgeist became a fever dream of “I’m with her!” white women shouting “Yas Queen!” with abandon while wearing pink, hand-knit pussy hats. The corporate girlboss fantasy began losing popularity the deeper we got into Trumpian times.
By 2020, the bloom was entirely off the girlboss rose. In retrospect, the movement felt not only patronizing but impossible. Even when women could succeed in C-Suite environments, they were held to brutal standards their male counterparts were not–they were interrupted more, dismissed as bossy, and given little support in the form of maternity leave and childcare. On top of that, we saw mounting attempts to overthrow Roe v. Wade, #MeToo, and renewed international attention on the Black Lives Matter movement. This crescendo of social justice and political awareness peaked in tandem with the beginning of the pandemic. With hopelessness, fear, and anger feeling inescapable in lockdown, nothing seemed more dysphoric than a “rise and grind” attitude. The Wing grew unpopular and eventually shuttered in 2022 following scandals pointing out its hypocrisy in the form of elitism and racism, a very neat microcosm for the main criticisms of the primarily white and privileged Girlboss movement. There had always been something brazenly sinister about the movement, and the pandemic was basically a Scooby-Doo-style unmasking of a familiar antagonist: capitalism. Or, known by its full Christian name, white hetero-patriarchal capitalism.
The “girlboss” ideal went from hashtag to punchline as it was castigated in the town square of social media. Both Michelle Obama and bell hooks criticized Lean In for the fact that Sandberg’s strategies confuse privileged, straight, cis white women for a homogeneous identity of all women. The now-popular social media-coined phrase “Gaslight, Gatekeep, Girlboss,” is perhaps the most succinct criticism: a catchy way of addressing the fad’s lack of intersectionality in terms of gender identity, race, and sexuality. Out of the Millennial ashes of the girlboss rose a new Gen Z iteration of internet feminism: Bimbocore. After the girlboss equated the success of feminism with patriarchal capitalist gain, the pendulum swung sharply in the other direction with Bimbo and Baby–aka, unapologetic femininity with an acerbic disregard for the system.
Out of the Millennial ashes of the girlboss rose a new Gen Z iteration of internet feminism: Bimbocore.
Emerging from TikTok and proliferating through pop culture, Bimbocore satirized the performance of femininity by championing the airheads, popular girls, sluts, ditzes, and any stereotype that fell on the “girly girl” spectrum–a stark contrast to the ideals of Lean In. Taylor Swift’s “You Belong With Me” pick-me bedroom girl was out, the hot cheerleaders were in. The girlboss trying to assimilate in a man’s world was dead–long live Elle Woods! Ice Spice and hyperpop musicians like Charli XCX and Kim Petras greatly popularized the Bimbocore trend in both their style and countless songs on the theme of being extremely hot and sexy. The reincarnation of Y2K tropes extended beyond the aesthetic–juicy sweatsuits, bubble-gum pink, sparkly nails, push-up bras, and mini-skirts–and put formerly lionized female Y2K icons on a pedestal. Paris Hilton, Lindsay Lohan, and Britney Spears were no longer punchlines; they were victims of an exploitative and celebrity-obsessed culture. Britney was freed. Pamela Anderson, Paris, and Britney all wrote books, and the public largely gave them the apologies and respect they always deserved.
In many ways, the Bimbo aesthetic reclaimed “girliness” in a culture where it was always seen as a weakness. Post-girlboss, the Bimbo was more inclusive in its politics and aesthetics. In contrast with the Girlboss, which had a whitewashed image of corporate success, the Bimbo aesthetic was a bit more inclusive, pulling from aesthetics native to street style and some traditionally non-white beauty trends (unfortunately continuing the theme of white people appropriating the shit out of those trends). The Bimbo was also much more open-minded in terms of what would constitute “success” for a woman–a Bimbo can be a golddigger, an Elle Woods Harvard grad, a stay-at-home mom–who cares as long as you’re serving c*nt? In contrast with the Stepford Wives-esque reaction to the #girlboss in the form of the #tradwife movement, Bimbocore feels like armor. Our weapon was sarcasm with sex appeal. While we were all suffering from the effects of a global pandemic and of a government constantly regressing on reproductive rights, trans/LGBTQ rights, and racial justice, this was a cherry-lacquered middle finger to the establishment. Centering gender performance, hyper-femininity, and overt sexuality, Bimbocore was about embracing everything we were being punished for.
While the Bimbo is still alive and well, a more soft-spoken form of femininity took hold in 2023 in the form of the aforementioned bow trend. The bimbo’s brazen sexuality was defanged in favor of more girlish, softer trends–satin ballet slippers, natural makeup, light pastels, and, of course, ribbons. Femininity became all about lying on your bed vaping and listening to Lana Del Rey’s newest and most harrowing album. It’s less about sexiness that overlaps with the male gaze and more about girliness that caters to childhood nostalgia. Perhaps it's the post-pandemic regression or the fact that Gen Z is living with their parents far longer than previous American generations, but this form of femininity is sulky, depressed, and clings to threads of our childhood. Unlike the Bimbo, larger girlhood trends have been criticized for their unabashed “whiteness” since women of color are often adultified and denied certain mainstream aesthetics of “girlhood.” Although this infantilizing trend is neither incredibly inclusive nor geared toward mobilizing change, the flagrant girliness (similar to Bimbocore) is partly a reclaiming of what was always deemed feeble and fragile. A glorification of vulnerability and malaise feels almost radical a mere three years after the official death of the girlboss. There is also a degree of self-awareness and knowing irony in the anti-capitalist showboating of wanting to be in bed 24/7.
It is hard for me to identify the exact line between sincerity and irony in this trend. While I find self-infantilization incredibly cloying, I can appreciate it as a brand of Internet satire. And who knows, Gen Z may actually be serious about their “fuck it, I’m a baby, and this is all scary and pointless.” Many seem to feel that way, and in the face of a climate crisis, this next election, an impossible economy, and an increasingly hostile and divided country (not to mention the increasing financial challenges of transitioning to adulthood), it’s hard not to wonder what future we’re even working towards. While the fall of the girlboss provoked the searing irony of the Bimbo-to-bow regression, it’s unclear what the next phase could be. Is there a level beyond baby to fall to? More specifically, how ironic is this demonstrative helplessness even in the first place? I personally would say it's both sincere and ironic. When we live in a world that needs no exaggeration to feel like satire, perhaps our reactions to it might be just as inscrutable and contradictory.
Now that we’ve gone from She-E-O to hot slut to sulky baby, what’s next? The womb? Neonatal-core? Perhaps we go all the way back to the pre-Cambrian explosion, and we’re all a bunch of sexy little trilobites? Or maybe the pendulum will swing in the other direction, and this newest Mob Wives aesthetic is going to take us back to the oversized fur coats, big hair, and the gaudy jewelry of our grandparent’s generation–a more adult take on unapologetic femininity. Or even further back, maybe we’ll start dressing like the wives of Industrialist Robber Barons. A 14th-century wench? Trollop-core? A crone obscured entirely by a cloak? In the post-modern mania of fashion cycles, it will likely not feel so linear. The progression of bimbo to baby was unusually neat, a continuation of a growing denouncement of the girlboss ethos claiming success can only be measured in capitalist gain.
Now that we’ve gone from She-E-O to hot slut, to sulky baby, what’s next? The womb? Neonatal-core?
While I’m not even sure what wave of feminism we’re on now, throughout each wave, fashion has historically been a clear reflection of our frustrations. And while irony isn’t a substitute for actionable change, it is at least a balm for very real and frightening feelings of hopelessness and anger. Sure, posting a TikTok of a pink bow tied around a packet of Chick-Fil-A sauce set to Lana Del Rey isn’t really screaming, “Your Body Is A Battleground.” But now Barbara Kruger’s legacy is inseparable from Supreme, vulnerability is a trend, and I feel an aching sense of empathy for a packet of Chick-fil-A sauce. “Feminism” and “femininity” are ever-changing because they are constantly being forged in opposition to prevailing cultural narratives that we have historically been excluded from creating. Because “femininity” is always being defined and managed by a patriarchy intent on controlling us, we must constantly reinvent our own definition to reclaim our agency–through irony, satire, and, at times, unapologetic sexuality–to prove our own autonomy, oftentimes to ourselves as much as others. Style is self-medicating, memes are self-soothing, and satire is sometimes our only available and affordable answer to tragedy. Maybe reinventing yourself as a coquettish little baby or a hot mean slut is your form of radical resistance. Maybe you just thought it looked hot, and that is just as valid. Hot, sad, mean, coquettish, slutty, boss baby–while this shapeshifting may feel like a futile attempt to arrive at a form of womanhood that this world will simply let be, at the very least, it succeeds in starting a conversation.