The Jessica Rabbit and Lola Bunny-fication of Women

It was once said, half in jest, mostly in truth, that the ideal muse for high fashion wasn’t a woman at all. It was a prepubescent boy. Flat chest. Narrow hips. Angular limbs. The heroin-chic aesthetic didn’t whisper femininity, it screamed malnourished adolescence. 

And why not? The preferred canvas for most haute couture designers, many of them gay men wasn't shaped by female biology, but by their own projections. Women were merely tailored into that fantasy.

And so began the great betrayal.

Where once stood the glorious curves of Marilyn Monroe, the sensuality of Elizabeth Taylor, the charm of Asha Parekh, Mumtaz, and Sharmila Tagore - now stood a problem. Those women, by today’s standards, would be sent off to the fat farm. Too soft, too full, too… real. The new aesthetic demanded shrinkage. Of flesh. Of identity. Of self.

Women contorted themselves into forms they never had and were never meant to have. Breasts were inconvenient. Hips were criminal.

Fashion didn’t follow the female form. It demanded the female form follow fashion. Guilt-ridden, hungry.

And the worst part? 

Women complied. Eagerly, willingly, painfully. All to be zipped into a size zero gown, a dress designed for someone who didn’t menstruate, sag or give birth. 

Diet culture was born. 

And thinness was no longer a preference. It became virtue. A mark of discipline, character, even morality. If you were fat, you were not just fat, you were lazy. Undeserving. Lacking in self-respect.

The fashion world didn’t hate women. It just loved the idea of women. An idea that bore no resemblance to reality.

But the story didn’t end there.

The pendulum never swung back to natural bodies. That would’ve been too humane. Instead, we veered into fantasy - again. And this time, the fantasy came with a cartoon outline.

Enter: Jessica Rabbit. And Lola Bunny.

Welcome to the new commandment—be unreal, but make it sexy.

Out went the boyish form. In came inflated breasts, impossible hips, microscopic waists. Now, women had to be both child and siren. With the belly of a twelve year old. The breasts of a porn star. A backside which had its own personality.

Eyelids lifted. Lips stuffed. Cheeks hoisted. Rib cages removed. Jaws sharpened. Our body reduced to a construction site that even Barbie blinked in disbelief.

This wasn’t beauty. This was butchery disguised as aspiration.

My body, my choice? Spare me.

These ideals weren’t dreamt up by women who bleed, bloat, or breastfeed. They were imagined by men who’ve never had to hold their stomach in through a 28-day cycle.

You haven’t come a long way, baby.

You’ve simply shrunk, stitched, suctioned, and filtered yourself into non-existence. So thoroughly erased, that even the washroom is no longer yours.