The modern-day it-girl sips a matcha latte with her Dior Lip Glow Oil-stained lips kissed against the cup. She has just returned from a trip to Paris, where she bought her first pair of Repetto ballet flats to wear at her unpaid fashion internship. Le Labo Rose 31 lingers on her skin as she scrolls through TikTok, waiting for her Depop order to arrive. She comes to life through an intersection of privilege, social consumption and desirability to reveal a woman who’s “chronically online” and, ironically, heavily influenced by trends.

Traditionally, it-girls have stood out from the masses; strange, captivating visions whose very allure was owed to their uniqueness. Picture Edie Sedgwick with her silver pixie and black tights (long before Kendall Jenner and Hailey Bieber began going pantless) or Grace Jones’s androgynous look, women who moved the needle on what it meant to be stylish or beautiful or interesting. But in today’s world of social media, where sameness is often rewarded through likes and views, can a bonafide it-girl really exist?

On TikTok, countless creators share makeup tutorials, aspirational morning routines and outfit inspiration videos–all stamped with an it-girl hashtag–to help viewers build (or buy) the best versions of themselves. Brands use the term as a marketing strategy, selling trendy products as memberships to the cool club (in which everyone and anyone owns an Artizia SuperPuff).

It’s why, for Biz Sherbert, co-host of Nymphet Alumni, a podcast unpacking social trends, the term has largely lost its meaning. “It’s often just a more tasteful or cooler way of labelling someone as an influencer,” she says. “I don’t think the concept of the traditional it-girl applies in the same way in today’s climate. To truly be ‘it,’ you must have some sort of outside-of-self-produced phenomenon, like paparazzi pictures captured at an exclusive party. But we lose much of that mystery when images are self-manufactured and distributed on our own curated profiles.”

Rayne Fisher-Quann, a Canadian writer known for her TikTok essays examining pop culture and feminist theory, agrees. “To me, a true it-girl is a cultural figure that serves as a mirror for the culture as a whole,” says Fisher-Quann. “She’s an icon of the times, which helps us analyze the zeitgeist she occupies.” For instance, we can look to Chloë Sevigny to understand the ’90s or study Alexa Chung to get a sense of the early aughts. But can the same truly be said about today’s crop of it-girls, largely nepo-babies the likes of Sofia Richie, Lori Harvey and Lily-Rose Depp all bearing the same glossy, overlined lips and toting the it-bag of the moment.

Of course, craving a sense of belonging is a perfectly natural human impulse. “There’s nothing inherently wrong with wanting to be popular and glamorous, and I think many stereotypical it-girl behaviours can be healthy and positive,” says Fisher-Quann. “A problem arises when women are encouraged to conform to these archetypes through the continuous consumption of products marketed to make them feel like their current lives are insufficient.”

Whether it’s a Mirror Palais dress or Laneige Lip Mask, acquiring the latest must-have items might make one feel adequate or worthy for a while, but that feeling quickly fades as a new signifier gains favour, replacing the last.

“People want to feel that they can actualize into a quality of specialness that is above the trend cycle and sets them apart from others,” says Sherbert. “It’s a form of inspiration and idolization that transports us to a space outside ourselves.” But what does this come down to? Despite what TikTok may promote, becoming an it-girl doesn’t happen by following a tutorial. It’s a label that can’t be reduced to a check-list of possessions, but ultimately comes down to that most priceless of attributes: being authentically yourself.

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